


The Ring In New York

by Beatriceorme



Series: The Ring Series [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:18:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatriceorme/pseuds/Beatriceorme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ring is Here...Now.</p>
<p>A Modern Retelling of The Lord of the Rings</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One  
  
Dragging his hand through dirty hair, Sam leaned against the wall and sighed. _Should I just walk in? Or knock?_ He snorted derisively, digging in his pockets for his keys. _Why should I knock? This is my own damn place!_ Well, technically it wasn’t, but he still lived here. The key was poised above the lock, then Sam’s hand fell away. He could hear talking in there, an argument of some kind and after the night he had just spent, Sam had no desire to walk in and be hit full in the face with all that anger and grief.  
  
 _You’re a double wuss, Sam. He’s your friend, and you’re out here listening through the keyhole!_ But what else could he do? _Jump back into my car, go to my dad’s place, grab a nap and a quick shower. Then I can face him with a clear head. Then maybe I can help him deal with last night._  
  
It had been one hell of a party, the Guinness and Sam Adams bottles cluttering up the walkway gave testament to that. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to ease the pain behind his eyes. In the fuzzy pre-dawn light he was still not sure what he had seen last night. Right there by the bean dip he stood watching the drunk make an ass out of himself, (it being his birthday and all, Sam figured he had a right), then within a blink of an eye, nothing. Poof. Gone. The room erupted into alcohol-induced cheering and cries for him to come out of where ever he was hiding. But, Sam had seen the look in his friend’s eye and knew that Bilbo would never be coming back.  
  
That’s when his practical, working class sense had kicked in. The party was over, get everybody out, and poured into cabs and home. He really hadn’t cared at all where some of those drunks ended up; the gutter would have been too good for the likes of them. Hangers-on, do-nothings that had only come to the party for the free food, and had no problem drinking a beer while talking trash about their host. Sam had been fond of crazy Uncle Bilbo and not just because he was his employer. Bilbo had always treated Sam like an equal, just one of the guys. It didn’t matter that Sam had dropped out of school or came from Brooklyn, the bad part. No, Bilbo had taken Sam under his wing, gave him a job at Bag End, his bookstore, and even encouraged him to read everything, and, while Sam had never completely grasped what Nietchse meant by ubermensch, or the Hawking dude’s string theory, he loved Bilbo fiercely for treating him like he deserved to be shown a better way. But, now Bilbo was gone. Sam knew that without a doubt. The look in Bilbo’s nephew’s eyes had told the whole story.  
  
Sinking down to the high polished hardwood, Sam buried his head in his hands. _Those eyes. Why can’t I get them out of my head?_

It had been Bilbo’s idea that Sam move in with him; didn’t like the idea of his best employee taking the dangerous subway twice a day. His dad had had a few choice words to say about it, but Sam didn’t listen; he just packed up his few belongings and never looked back. If he had it to do all over again, though, he would have thought twice, maybe 12 times, about Bilbo’s offer. Living right under the same roof put him in daily contact with the nephew; and for the past several years, Sam had lived in agony.  
  
In the gardening section, that’s where it had been. Sam looked up and immediately fell into blue. He still would blush when he recalled his stupid stuttering response when introduced to Frodo, Bilbo’s nephew. He was perfect, not real somehow; certainly not made with the same genetic material that Sam and every other human being on the planet had flowing through their body. He literally glowed, with joy or excitement, or something that Sam could never name. And when their hands had touched during that brief introduction, Sam knew without a shadow of a doubt, he was in love.  
  
A changed man after that. His father saw it, Rosie, his on-again-off-again girlfriend from the old neighborhood, saw it; Bilbo had even remarked at how he seemed to get, well, more alive whenever his nephew was near. Sam couldn’t help it; there was just something about that young man that made him go all tingly inside and lose the power of speech when hit with Frodo’s smile.  
  
Those feelings weren’t right, he knew that, and he would berate himself late at night, alone in his bed, yell, calling himself all the dirty names his could think of: queer, faggot, homo. It never did any good, though. Just the thought of Frodo lying in bed just beyond the bedroom wall had Sam in tears as he played himself into another frustrated orgasm.   
  
It didn’t help matters much that Frodo seemed to enjoy Sam’s company, and took every opportunity to throw himself in Sam’s path. Semester breaks were the worst; not only would Frodo be at the apartment, parading around in his boxers and asking Sam to make him breakfast, Frodo would bounce around the bookstore, supposedly there to help his uncle, but in reality he would pull books that interested him from the shelves, read a chapter or two, then flit to the next one, the end result was more work for Sam. It didn’t matter, though. Sam would clean up after him, make his bed, do his laundry or sit deep into the night keeping him company just to see him smile. There were times when Sam wondered if his feelings for Frodo might be reciprocated. An arm about the shoulders, a brush of a hand, a burning in those blue eyes. Then Sam would give himself a reality check, _high school drop out and law student?_ , call himself a fucking moron and the world would return itself to the proper order. He could never hope to be anything else except Sam, the loyal friend and employee.  
  
And it was loyal employee mode that put him in the role of designated driver, seeing the most wasted of the party guests home. His last drop off had been all the way out in Jersey and now it was 4 o’clock in the morning. He was exhausted, hung over, dirty and all he wanted was bed.  
  
 _I have to go in sometime_ , the groan one to make any octogenarian proud as he hauled stiff body up from the floor. _Maybe I can just sneak in and make it to my room before they notice._ That was the plan, anyway as he put the key in the door. Didn’t get to turn it for the very next second the door flew open, a hand grabbed his shirt and he was inside.  
  
“Listening at keyholes again, Sam? What did you hear?”  
  
Surprise more than anger wrenched free. “What the fuck is your problem, old man?”  
  
The grey-bearded man, who stood a good 6” taller than Sam, had a wild look about him. “What did you hear?”  
  
“None of your damn business, Gandalf.” Sam didn’t know why this old fart was here, but he certainly didn’t like the accusatory tone being thrown in his direction. His shoulders were grabbed again, this time with a stronger grip. “Get your fucking hands off of me!” he shouted and twisted in vain.  
  
“Sam.”  
  
He stood by the window, the back light from the street, obscuring his face. Sam could tell from the sound of his voice, however, that something was terribly wrong. A look up again and he saw near panic. “Nothing, OK? I didn’t hear a damn thing.”  
  
The old man held Sam for a long moment, searching his face, then loosened his grip with a sigh. “That’s good, good.”  
  
Wrenching his shoulders away, Sam walked angrily over to the window. “Mind telling me just what the fuck is going on here? Not that I really mind being jumped by your professor and accused of being a spy the very moment I walk in mind you, but-”  
  
“I’m leaving, Sam.”  
  
Heart splatted on the frayed Turkish rug. “Don’t say that, Frodo, please don’t say that. Just because Bilbo left, don’t mean that you’ve got to.” _I can’t be without you._  
  
“It has partly to do with his uncle’s departure,” the old man stepped to the window, looking out over the city, “And everything to do with life itself.”  
  
 _Why do these philosophy assholes have to talk in riddles?_ “And just where are you going?”  
  
The professor answered instead. “Don’t think it is safe for you to know, Sam.”   
  
“I’m talking to him, if you don’t mind,” Sam took the young man, his heart’s desire, by the shoulders and shook him slightly until those blue eyes met his. Pain and terror were having one hell of a battle to be first in line deep in there. “Where are you going, Frodo?”

  
“I’m going to Rivendell," the tone hushed, as if the very mention of that place needed to remain a secret.  
  
“Rivendell? Where the hell is that? Upstate somewhere?”  
  
The old man gave a condescending chuckle. “No, my dear, Samwise.”  
  
He glared daggers. Hated when people used his full name; it meant he was either in deep shit, or something terrible had happened. A quick situation assessment was pointing in both those directions. “OK, Connecticut? Canada? Where?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter, Sam, you’re not coming with me.” Frodo walked out of Sam’s hold and over to the couch. He shrugged on his backpack. “This is something I must do alone.”  
  
“Now, just hold on a damn minute. You’re not leaving to go anywhere without an explanation.”   
   
“It is better that you remain uninformed, Samwise.”  
  
“Fuck that, Gandalf! I’m his friend, and I want to know!”  It really wasn’t any of his business where Frodo went; Sam just the roommate, just the employee, nobody special. But, the prospect of Frodo disappearing from his life had Sam swallowing dread's acid knot. “Please tell me, Frodo, just tell me.”  
  
The young man glanced over to the window and received a quick gray-bearded nod. With a sigh Frodo reached into his jeans and something pulled out. "This."

Not really an answer to his question, but to Sam’s eye it must have been heavy by the way it appeared to pull Frodo down, shrink him somehow. “Bilbo’s ring? Is that what all this is about? A goddamn ring?”  
  
Well, that certinaly piqued Gandalf's interest. “You know about Bilbo’s ring?”  
  
Sam snorted. “Sure. Told me he found it at some carnival or something while at a convention in the Midwest. One of those lame rides, or something. Misty Mountain, I think he said. Anyway, just happened to look down and there was this ring shinning in the dark. Said it was his good luck charm or something.” Passed between teacher and student, right over Sam's head, a look, a knowing glance. “Is that why Bilbo left? Because of that ring? What, did it belong to a mob boss or something? And now he wants it back?”  
  
“Yes, that is precisely it, Sam," Gandalf said as he gathered his coat. “And Frodo here must return it to its rightful owner before the authorities become involved.”  
  
This was better, something to hang ballcaps on, tangible things, rings and mob bosses, not all that mystical stuff about life itself. “And the bad guys are in Rivendell, where ever the hell that is?”   
   
“Exactly.” Final instructions headed for a hasty exit. “Frodo, be very careful. Remember you must keep the Ring secret and safe. No one must know you carry it.”  
 

“Wait just a damn minute.” A quickly executed block, Sam confronting Gandalf by the front door. “Where do you think you’re going?” _This guy is going to let college boy here face the whole of organized crime alone?_  
  
“I must talk to the head of my department,” Gandalf explained, slipping on his grey flannel coat, “He will know what to do.” The point of his ski cap flopped over to one side. “I will meet you at the appointed place, Frodo.”  
   
 "And just where is that?"  
  
“The Prancing Pony,” Frodo's slightly embarrassed answer.  
  
Sam nearly choked. “The Prancing Pony? You’re sending Frodo to a gay bar? Alone?” The two handed 'well, duh!' gesture presented the beautiful young man evidence. “They’re going eat him alive!”

An annoyance puckered brow. "I'm still here, you know, Sam."  
  
“Well, what do you suggest, Samwise?”  
  
There was that name again. _Don’t care if you are Frodo’s favorite professor. I’m going to wipe that smug look off your face one day._ “Just let me take a quick shower and I’ll go with him.” It was the most natural thing for him to say, 'I’ll go with him.' The only thing that puzzled Sam was why he didn’t just come right out and proclaim it at the beginning.  
  
“Sorry, no time for that.”  
  
“OK, can I at least change my clothes? Been in this stuff for over a day.” Gandalf nodded tersely and Sam, afraid of either a change of old man mind, or the sneaky slip out, jumped straight to his bedroom. “The Prancing Pony, that’s up in the village, right?”  
  
“Yes, Sam." Apprehension squeezed Frodo's words tight.  
  
“I’ll need to get gas before we -"  
  
“No! No cars,” Gandalf shouted, “License plates can be traced.”  
  
"OK, no car."  Returning to the main room, instead of clean clothes, a crammed hastily full shoulder slung backpack, Sam pulled out his phone and hit speed dial #6. “Can’t take the car, at least we can take a - Hello? Yeah, I need a cab sent to The Shire, yeah, the brownstone on the corner of, what the fuck!”  
  
The cell phone was under Gandalf’s heel before Sam knew what was happening. “And no cell phones! Do you want them to know where you are?”  
  
Heartsick hands cradled the crushed remains of his two bonuses saved, so brand spanking new didn't even have time to change the ringtone yet Smartphone."Then how in the hell are we going to get there?  
  
“The subway?” Frodo suggested.  
  
“No, I would stay away from dark tunnels, my boy. Why don’t you walk?” The old professor had a twinkle in his eye that set Sam’s nerves even further on edge.  
  
“Walk? That’s over 200 blocks from here!”

  
 A belly pat. “We could all do for a bit of exercise, Samwise."  
  
 _The name, messing with Frodo, brand fucking new IPhone and now the weight thing_ , sleep deprived strung out on eleventyone cups of coffee life upheaved in an instant irritation jerked open the front door,  _Like to push this pompous shit off the nearest bridge._  
  
“Could be worse, Sam," Frodo passed by out the front door, the light touch of his hand to Sam's arm, that burning look again, "could be raining," and Sam's peevish mood totally forgot its own name.  
  
"Samwise Gamgee!"

_Oh, yeah. Now I remember._  
  
“You pushed your way into this and are now a part of something that all of existence depends on. What Frodo carries must get to Rivendell. Don’t let him out of your sight.”  
  
Sam had had enough, sarcasm biting back hard. “Warning me of lions and tigers and bears, oh, mighty OZ? Think I can get my friend to the Village just fine.”  
   
“Rely solely on your empty bravado, Samwise, and you will surely fail."   
   
Ready and aimed to fire right back, but something in Gandalf's eyes screeched self defending protest to a halt on tongue's tip. '"Gandalf?"

"Can give you nothing, Samwise, nothing to ease your journey except hope, against all the odds hope." The old man was frightened. No, he was scared shitless. "Don't you lose him, Sam. Don't you leave him."

_Oh, fuck me. Whatever's haunting him, is Frodo heading straight towards?_  “No, Sir. Nothing will happen to Frodo while he’s with me. Besides, I love him too much to see him come to harm.” _Why did I say that? Now he’s going to think I’m some kind of pervert or something._  
  
“I know you do,” a fatherly hand on Sam’s shoulder, “And that love is what I’m counting on to see him through.”  
  
“Sam?” Frodo held the elevator door open. "Are you coming or what?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!" A jog down the hall, to fate, to future, to Frodo. _An_ _d whether it’s the Prancing Pony, or Rivendell or to the ends of the world or not, I won’t leave him.  Ever._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 

“Never been this way before.”  
  
“Gandalf suggested we take a more circular route.”  
  
“Uh huh. In Philosophy speak - the elbow and ass route.”  
  
Frodo laughed and felt some of the weight he had carried since last night lift. Even though gone for less than a day, the Bilbo sized hole ached terribly. And what now? _What do I now, without Bilbo?_ Not a consciousness stream he wished to wade through, not with the flood water marks of Before Bilbo still fresh.  
  
He never had a chance to say goodbye, unthinkable news delivered by a man wearing a polyester suit and insincere condolences. Never had the opportunity to even see them buried, bodies lost at sea, parents gone down with the rest of the plane wreckage. Then like some kind of playground ball, for eight years he had bounced between relatives, none quite ready to lay claim to the withdrawn and melancholy orphan.  Overseas during that lost time, treasure hunting, so the stories always spun out, but upon his return to the States, inquiries were made, documents were notarized, and Bilbo finally took Frodo home. 

“Here, Frodo let me take that pack,” Sam offered when he caught Frodo shifting its weight for the fourth time in as many steps.  
  
Frodo resisted. “I can carry this, Sam. Only a change of clothes and such. Not a weakling, you know.”  
  
“Not a weakling, but you being a student and all, didn't -”  
  
“Ever carry a full semester's load of law books? Knowledge is not only power, Sam, it's also incredibly heavy.”   
  
Elementary, Middle a blur of yearly the new kid introductions, and back of the bus poundings, then high school (a particular incident with a flagpole) nightmare worthy. But with a 5.0 carat GPA - studying 'bout the only thing to do when sitting days on end alone in a crowded cafeteria - colleges were on a take a ticket system, and not wanting to leave the only true home he had known since his parents', the nod went to Columbia. With the academic freedom at last gifted, and the dwerp nametag ripped off, Frodo had dabbled here and there until finally settling on the law. Decision made, undergrad was over in three years, and law school tackled with the same single minded determination. Frodo's whole life sprawled out before him, each step carefully planned and plotted: graduate top of his class, pass the Bar first time out, intern in the DAs office, with the Supreme Court not far behind. He was, with crumudgeonly uncle support, on his way.

_And then came Sam._

“Point taken. But, you're not walking to class, are you?"

"No, just a leisurely afternoon stroll down the island of Manhattan."

"A 200 block stroll hauling a backpack that you can't seem to - just give me the damn thing!" Sam's brook no argument handled the shoulder to shoulder transfer with ease. "There. See? Two backpacks full of clothes just as easy to carry as one."

"Yes, but you shouldn't -" A dead middle of the sidewalk stop, angry New York minute stares flowing around. "Sam, why did you pack clothes?"

"Dry cleaning. Can we get mov -"

"Why did you pack clothes?"

"Goodwill donation. We need to -"

"Why did you pack clothes?"

"Be prepared I always say.”

“You were a Scout?”

“No, Sex Ed class. Frodo, people are getting -”

"Samwise Gamgee!"

"Don't call me that! I fucking hate that name!"

"And now that I've got your attention, answer my question."'

"OK, OK, but can we _please..."_ Frodo allowed himself and his upper hand to be rushed out of New York hospitality's way to sidewalk's building hugging edge. "Damn, ten blocks in and there goes our low profile."

"Sam, answer the question, why the clothes when we're only going to the Village?"

"You see, Frodo, it's like this..." Now Sam was having backpacks trouble, ruching them left/right, pulling on the straps, a desperate try for breathing room, "I, uhm, I, well, I…could ask you the same question, you know. Why do _you_ have clothes if it's only going to be to the Village and back?"

Ah, the old answer a question with a question ploy, “Just in case, Sam,” which Frodo plowed right into, “May need to go, given circumstances, to Rivendell perhaps, and maybe beyond.”

“Exactly, Frodo, exactly.”

“No, Sam, no.” The foot down firmly planted on principle and a Kit Kat wrapper. “Made everything perfectly clear before we left the Shire, this is my mess alone, you are only going as far as -”

“The Prancing Pony, Rivendell, and that beyond you mentioned, yes. Where you go, I go, too, oh look! A grocery store! You hungry?”

Frodo yanked across the street against the oncoming traffic.

_And it's been Sam ever since._  
  
Just seemed natural, after that bookstore meeting, Frodo and Sam, friends. Beers, movies, gossip, opinions, the flu and even a t-shirt or two shared in equal parts. Frodo adored Sam's uncomplicated view of the world, his Frodo 'as is' acceptance. They were, OMG, like BFFs. However, when Bilbo's favorite employee moved into their apartment…

Happened one morning, Frodo stumbling into the kitchen, bleared eyed and hung over, in zombie search of coffee. Mug hastily offered, Frodo gratefully accepted, fingertips scorchingly brushed. Sexually ambivalent for self-preservation purposes prior to, when he touched the hand of his uncle's stuttering clerk, fence sitter no longer - Frodo _wanted_ Sam.  
  
It was a kind of scientific experiment: which one of Sam's activities flamed Frodo's hottest response. After due diligence and copious research – spending less than every waking Spring Break moment with the subject would have skewed the results - It was a tie: when Sam was putting books on the top shelves, stretching those muscles hard across his body, or when, in the dead hours of the night, Frodo would listen to him masturbate in his bed. Frodo's sweetest releases were when he joined Sam separated only by the bedroom wall.

The idea of love had not even deserved a footnote in Frodo's grand life plan. With Sam stumbling into the picture, however, he had crumpled said plan, and tossed it into the trash. A new one still an embryo, as of yet only one line item – catch Sam - when Bilbo threw his disappearing birthday party and to Frodo the Ring.

_Happy birthday to me._

“So, what're you hungry for, hmmm?” A throw away that traveled down the juice box aisle.  
  
“Sam, Sam, Sam, SAM!”  Avoidance nabbed by the Capri Sun. “There’s something else going on. What are you not telling me?”  
  
“Nothing, there’s nothing to tell you want Mountain Cooler or strawberry kiwi?”

“Bullshit. Can tell you’re lying. Mountain Cooler.  
  
“Not shitting here, Frodo, I’m -”

“Samwi -”

“OK, OK!” His Nikes suddenly became very interesting. “Told Gandalf that I wouldn't leave you, no matter how far you go. He made me promise.”

“Gandalf? Why that sneaky, forcing you to -” Indignation thy name was Frodo. “Can’t, won’t hold you to that, Sam, this is my problem, you are free to go as just as far as -”  
  
“Shut the fuck up.” Unabashed honesty met Frodo full force. “There was no forcing involved, OK. Yes, the old man’s a little pushy, a little buttinski, and a lot pretentious, but my own decision, my own choice. You're not going anywhere without me.”  
  
 _Shouldn’t the store’s Musak be tinning out a sappy ballad cover right about now, ‘cause I'm definitely having a tingly all over romantic moment_. “Sam, you’ve no idea how much that means to -”

“Don’t turn around. Just walk casually out of the store.”

The jacket around his waist dipped heavier, something slipped into the pocket. “Come on, Sam.”

“Wait, Frodo, you’re just going to - HEY! What the hell are you -”

“Shut up!” A second voice, another slipped in contraband item. “Are you trying to get caught?”

The saunter calm, non-committal, an easy-peasy trip to the registers, Frodo’s cinnamon Trident purchase perfectly legal, a wink for the Goth cashier, and then an innocent exit of Maggot’s Corner Grocery, a block away to an mostly empty bus stop shelter, and not a single reservation of the misdemeanor being committed, Sam sputtering guilty as sin right behind.

“You can breathe now, Sam.”

“Yeah, no prison orange for you today.”

“Get your shits and giggles without me next time, Merry!”

Hands warded off the righteous outrage. “OK, Sam, Jesus, don't get so defensive. We only lifted fruit.”

“So what the hell are you guys doing here except raising the prices at Maggot's?” Banana tossed, Frodo catching it mid potassium high flight.  
  
“Didn't want to go to real estate today,” Golden Delicious juice dribbled down Pippin’s chin, “Slept enough last night.”  
  
Introducing two of Frodo’s law school friends –

Meriadoc Brandybuck - from Bucks County, PA and the oldest son of the largest land owner there, 5,000 acres of prime farm land will be Merry’s one day, not to mention a prominent place in local politics.

Peregrin Took - hailing from Scottsboro, TN, Pippin to his close friends, is the only son of the mayor in a long line of southern mayors, expectations hold that he will someday continue the Took tradition.

Futures guaranteed, for both law school a lark, an excuse to get out from underneath dads and play for a while before responsibility found them.

“Oh, shit, yeah, sorry ‘bout last night, ‘bout missing your b’day party, Frodo, we kinda’,” the Pippin to Merry glance came with a smirk, “had plans.”

Merry smirked right back. “Yeah, sorry. Sure it was a blast.”

“Oh, yes, a good time was had by all.” Sam’s sarcasm left little room for much else on the bus stop bench.

“Yeah,” Frodo stuffed memory’s hurt and hands as far down as jean’s pockets would stretch, “party was a blast,” knuckles brushing a cruel warmth, _Bilbo disappeared and all I got was this lousy Ring._

After the party and Bilbo's ‘surprise’, after Sam had herded all the party guests out of the apartment, and nothing was left but the literal and figurative mess, Gandalf had told of the Ring's making and the corruption that followed in its wake. He spoke of other rings, too, of battles and lost lands, of murder and evil, death and destruction, what must be done if the world was to remain free. And Frodo had tried to be an attentive audience, really he did, grasping that he should know the truth, ALL of the truth about what had landed in the palm of his hand. Round about the part with that dude’s ambush ‘cause he didn’t listen to that elf warrior guy, though, as those crazy ass names jumbled tighter, he noticed it.

A tickle, that’s how it started, just a tiny tickle in the back of his mind, and like the tongue that can’t leave be a broken tooth, he teased it out, a little by little coax, the tickle becoming a touch, cool balm and warm comfort, a murmur, base, sweet, the whisper, for only him, his needs, his desires, anything, everything, the voice forging the deal of reciprocity, the shout for attention, Here! Here I –

Gandalf’s slap hurt like hell, but did the trick, brought Frodo back and silenced the voice.

_But, not really, still always there, background, white noise kinda, soft, quiet, well usually quiet, now it’s, can hear it, it’s saying, saying something like -_

“Guys, I think we should go.”

“A walk, just a walk, that’s all.” Sam, the picture of nonchalance, no agendas, no pressing engagements with mob bosses at Village gay bars, nope, just kicked back, shooting shit and watching New York bully by. “Yep, a plain boring walk.” If only his leg would play along.

“That right, a walk.” Noticed the off immediately, hard not to, Sam’s twitching nearly bouncing Merry right off the bench. “You’re just taking a walk?”

“We should really get out of here, guys.”

“So it’s a walk, big fucking deal.”

“With Central Park right across 5th from The Shire, you’re taking a 60 block walk downtown?”

“You know, there is that great gelato place over on Lex,” he was only trying to help, “maybe they were -”

“Pippin! They’re shoveling some bullshit story about a walk and you’re giving me gelato?”

“Well, I –“

“Fucking hide! NOW!”

“Who you calling a – Frodo! Wait!”

He could hear it, just like at the apartment, hear it in his head, sneaking, slithering, the demand to be found, that same voice shouting, forever calling, calling, and Frodo knew, he knew that something, some _thing_ would answer.

_Gotta hide, hide, anywhere, any place, hear the voice, calling, calling to, it’s coming, coming close, coming now, hide, HIDE!_

An alley, Converses squeaking around the greasy puddle corner, a place, a niche, a tiny hole where he could pull the lid down over top and disappear before, before whatever reached – there, a doorway, covered in gang speak and littered with apathy, good, not great, but maybe if he squeezed real tight back into the far –

“Frodo! What the hell!” Hands on thighs, Sam’s alarm huffed to the splintered asphalt, as he tried to recover from two months’ worth of exercise inside of 30 seconds. “Why’d you run away like -”

“Hide, Sam, you’ve, all of you, hide!”

“Jesus, Frodo,” the doorway squeezed in another, “what’s wrong with you?”

Merry didn’t feel like playing. “Frodo, if this is some kind of bullshit practical joke, I'm gonna-”

“They’re coming, they’re coming, Sam.”

Frodo’s creeping tone an excellent motivator. “Yeah, I’m thinking benefit of the doubt time here, Mer-”

A collar grab and two more made a dinky doorway huddled mass yearning to understand.

_The Voice calling…calling…calling…_

“Frodo, are you -”  
  
A cold creeping, a void absent of color, of light and life, oozed over them, snatching every good feeling they possessed, the chaff emptiness. The sound, that sound, the heavy clunk of steel tipped boots on broken asphalt, wrong, dead, no echo across the hovering brick, droning ever closer. The smell, rotting flesh and decay, malice and destruction. Scrawny arms flopped loose, unnatural extra joints jumping nervous as skinny fingers skittered across the alley way walls tapping a cockroach rhythm on the sooty bricks. The head, only a black shroud, the vacant pit where a face should be. And then it sniffed, sniffed though concave chest took no breathe, it sniffed, it snnnnnniiifffffffffed, testing the air for any scent of prey.  
  
 _The Voice calling…calling…calling…answer…an answer…my an -_  
  
The voice went silent, Sam held Frodo’s hand and within his fist, the Ring.  
  
A crazy bag lady squeaked around the corner.

“Goddamn!” Tumbling out of the doorway, cough, spit gag, wretch, Merry and Pippin tried anything to dispel the taste, the feel of that, that _thing_ from their minds. “What the fuck was that? Frodo, what was…Frodo? _Frodo_?”

“Hmmmmm?” _I’m holding his hand, holding Sam’s, well, technically I’m holding Bilbo’s ring and Sam’s holding my hand, warm, and callused and strong, what now, do I look at him, is he looking at me, fuck, what now, should let go, yeah, I should let, or should I wait until he lets, don’t want to let, maybe he’s waiting until I –_

“Would you two like to be alone?”

Moment snapped shut, and Sam was out of the doorway eye blink fast. “Been fun, guys, gotta go, see youse on Facebook.” With stumbling behind Frodo in tow, he headed straight for the street and original mission.

_He’s still holding my hand!_

“Now wait just a goddamn minute, here!” Madder than a wet hen, as his Nana would say, Pippin streaked to block the alley exit. “You’ve got some ‘splaining to do.”

“Explain what, Frodo and me, just out doing errands, important stuff, stuff that can’t wait, so -” Sam’s Pippin bum rush thwarted, too.

“Thought you were just out walking.”

“Well, right, sure, walking, that’s what I meant, walking to do those important -”

Frodo rescued the terrible liar. “This.”

Gazing down, Merry and Pippin examined their friend’s out stretched palm. “What, Bilbo’s ring?”

“You, you know about…?”

“Don’t you remember, Frodo? Last Fourth of July, up on the roof, sparklers, hot as a mother, homemade Sangria, lots of homemade Sangria, choosing which mutant power was coolest? I was Wolverine, Pippin was all about Storm, for some unknown reason.”

“My hair doesn’t do humidity, Merry.”

“And you, Frodo, you wanted…wanted…”

“Colossus, and it was Memorial Day, with glow sticks and Mojitos, but it was fucking hot, so hot that Frodo was wearing just swimming trunks and…”

“Sam, would _you_ like to be alone?”

“Fuck off!” Anger more than embarrassment, but Sam did drop Frodo’s hand.

“Anyway,” conversation’s thread picked back up by Pippin, “Bilbo claimed he was an X-Men, disappeared, then showed us his ring.”

“And that’s what that, that,” Merry’s shudder rattled his back molar crowns, “wanted?”

“Yes, Bilbo found it and now some mob boss wants it back, so,” Sam tried the slip around escape again, “if you’ll excuse -”

“A mob boss? You talking mafia, that _thing_ The Family? Shit, must have missed that episode of ‘The Sopranos.’”

Too much time spent on chatter, and no desire to revisit what just happened, _though the hand holding I could repeat,_ Frodo was anxious to get the ring rolling again. “Regardless of why or whom, I need to get down to the Village ASAP.”

“So, you’re walking there?”

“Told no cars or taxies,” and a time saver interjection by Sam, “no cell phones either. Nothing that can be tracked.”

“Serious shit, for sure. OK, OK. To the Village fast, let’s see…” All possible routes tinkered out, Merry creating a solution. “Right. Buckleberry Station.”

“But, wait!” Sam protest shouted to a Merry dragging Frodo away with Pippin close behind swallowing up crowd. “ Remember he said -”

“No dark tunnels.” Frodo paused at the sidewalk entrance, reluctant to go against the warning.

“That’s kinda the way it works, Frodo.” Three steps down, Merry impatient to implement his brilliant walking alternative. “That’s why it’s called the _sub_ way.”

“But, Gandalf said -”

“Gandalf?” Pippin, stopped mid railing slide down, was excited confused. “You mean your professor is a mob boss?”

“No, but he is the one I’m meeting at the Prancing Pony.”

“He’s a gay philosophical crime lord?”

“Frodo! Frodo!” Weaving through the subway enter/exit flow, Sam caught up, none too happy about the skip out. “Don’t do that, don’t go down there, you know what Gandalf said about -”

_The Voice calling…calling…calling…_

Across the street, twenty yards…fifteen yards…clunk of boots, the smell overpowering, ssssssssnnnnnniiiiffffff…ten…

“Frodo! NO!”

Terror tossed Frodo down the subway stairs – _run run RUN! –_ not safe on the street, he went underground, taking two, three at a time, suit, hipster, mother and child, shoved to the side of his panic – _run run RUN! –_ bottom, didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, distance didn’t matter, milling crowd didn’t matter, raw throat, side slice, muscle burn didn’t matter – _run run RUN! -_ just get to the train, just get to the other side, turnstile not a barrier, change, find some change, pocket dig deep for –

The Ring.

_Give it back, could just give it back, why not, no more, that’s what it wants, could just hand it over and –_

“Don’t fucking stop!”

Between Merry and Pip, arms linked, Frodo was dragged backwards, legs floundered beneath, feet tripping and skipping along. Pippin over first, “Here!” hand Frodo next, then Merry, all three turnstile jumped, conjoined triplets, racing for the far end of the platform.  
  
“I don't have the right change!” Pockets turned out, backpacks flapping, playing bumper cars with opposite direction traffic, Sam struggled to catch up.  
  
“Jump it!”

“Can’t believe I’m fucking doing -” with a gymnast’s grace, and the agility of teenage years practice, Sam vaulted over the turnstiles, stuck the landing and reached platform’s edge in 10.65 seconds. “Frodo, what the hell? Didn’t you hear me?”

“I’m sorry, Sam, but it was up there and I freaked and -”

Apology not accepted. “Gandalf said no dark tunnels. And where are we?” A shoulder grab to emphasize the serious. “A fucking dark tunnel!”

“But –“

“No, no buts, Frodo. Running from crazy shit, that’s OK. But, running from me? No.  Can’t do my job elsewise.”

Straight into Sam’s eyes, honey gold with flecks of possibility. “And your job is?”

“You.” A hand to cheek, thumb gentling away a soot smudge. “Only you.”

_Ah, yes, his hand! Still strong, still warm, if a little clammy. Feels so – did I just lean? Close my eyes and lean into his – oh, god, if I kitten purred I’ll -_

“Uh, guys, I think we need to catch the next train.” Lookout Pippin warned of oncoming trouble. “Fast.”

“Don’t fucking tell me it’s -” both fight and flight reflexes snapped heads around. “Thank god, just transit cops.” All heads snapped to stare down the oncoming tunnel. “And with movie precision timing, here’s our ride,” train into the station, doors whoosing open right in front, “After you, gentlemen,” Merry ushered all in, even had a wave for those left standing on the platform. “Buh-bye, officers!”

 A scrawny lump of corduroy clad worn out wasted dropped to the closest plastic seat. “But, where does this go?”

“Doesn't matter,” Sam plopped down right next, “as long as it’s away from here.”  
  
“Downtown,” Pip squinted at the faded map posted on the wall, “I think.”

Except for the odd little man having an argument with himself over in the far corner, the subway car was exclusive. With Merry and Pippin sniping over their route –

“No, moron, the bridge is twenty miles _that_ way!”

\- and Sam busy cramming two backpacks contents into one, for the first time since leaving The Shire Frodo was approaching safe, and he allowed the monotonous train rhythm to carry him down to relax mode. _Why am I  even here, what am I doing? Fucking crazy shit, and all because of Bilbo’s, is that me, that stench, fuck, should have changed, jacket too heavy, bet I’ve got t-shirt pits, contacts like fucking boulders in my eyes, blisters on my heels, tired, thirsty, and fucking starving! When was the last – hummus at Bilbo’s party, Eat when we get there, IF we get there, don’t even know where we’re, does The Prancing Pony serve food? Probably only little haute shit, burger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger with bacon and onion and mustard and pickles and why am I falling ov –_

A jerk, and eyes snapped open.  
  
“You, OK?”  
  
Frodo looked up from his pillow, Sam’s shoulder. “Fine, I’m fine.” A quick sit up, making sure he, and any embarrassment would remain in the upright and locked position. _If I fucking drooled on him…_  
  
“When was the last time you slept? Yesterday?  You should take a nap while you can. Come here.”  
  
“Said I was fine!”

“Whatever,” and Sam returned to the current Clancy he was reading.

_Don’t tell me to take a nap! I’ll take a nap when I want to take a nap, when I need to take a nap, and I don’t need to take a –_ forehead bounced off the window. _Need a nap._  Scrunched down in the seat, knees on the ones in front. _Perfect, I’ll just close my eyes and drift off, can’t breathe, can’t –_ pulled in tight against the window – _rest my head and, bump, will be asleep, bump, in no, bumpbump –_ legs pulled up on the left – _now_ _something’s sticking in my back –_ head on knees drawn up on seat – _sneakers, keep, slipping, off, the_ – lean forward, arms on seat in front, head on crossed arms – _what, the person who sat here never heard of deodorant, and now my back is cramp –_ sit straight up, feet flat on the floor, hands in lap, eyes closed – _if I can just keep my head from –_

“Jesus fucking Christ, Frodo! Come here!” Sam gathered him close, tucked neatly under his arm.

“Just ‘cause I went a little fucking nuts back there doesn’t mean I’m some little kid, don’t need your –“ _Oh, that’s nice. Very nice. Just like his hand, shoulder warm and strong and solid, if a little moist, and, maybe just a second or eighty-seven, just close my eyes and rest, rest until the next station, until the Village, until The Prancing Pony, meet Gandalf and get rid of this fucking…_ “Sam?”

“Yes, Frodo?”

“All this, those fucking creepy things, Bilbo’s ring? Got nothing to do with the mafia.”

“Never believed that bullshit story, anyway.” An almost kiss breezed across Frodo’s grime matted curls. “Go to sleep now.”

“M’kay.” _Could get used to this, Sam's shoulder, Sam's arms. Sam's arms around me. In the morning just waking up, no, going to sleep, body next to mine, oooh, even better, Sam's arms, sweaty and bare, holding me down while I –_

The smell.  
  
"Oh, no."  
  
Merry looked away from the map. It was standing at the door of the adjoining car in front.  
  
"Oh, shit."  
  
Pip looked away from the map. It was standing at the doorway of the car in back.

  
"Oh, fuck."  
  
Four friends trapped between them.

“Behind me, Frodo!” Sam making a last stand against one, Merry and Pippin covering his back facing down the other, fragile human versus unquenchable evil.

Boot clunks, ssssssssnnnnnniiiifffffff, whimpers from the strange little man in the corner, and in Frodo’s head –

_The Voice calling…calling…calling._

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter Three

“Come ON! Come ON!” The train door receiving the back beat of Merry’s boot. “Come ON!”

Sweat and fear and Pippin’s pepper spray, Sam’s curses – “Stay back, motherfuckers!” – Frodo’s babbling – “Calling, can hear it, calling, calling!” and Merry with his kicking, all squeezed into a nucleus of futile as the boots clunked ever…

“Come ON!”

…ever…

“Come ON!”

…ever…

“FUCKING OP -”

Ssssssssnnnnnnniiiiffffff

“Times Square station.”

A placid ding.

Into mid-morning platform crowd, the subway car disgorged the hunted, arms shoving, legs scrabbling, Frodo going under quickly scooped up by Sam, Merry out in front, a stampede of just away.

“Doesn’t -” Merry flash snapped over the shoulder glance, “doesn’t anyone _else_ see those -”

A shrill scream bounced around the underground terminal.

“Thank you!”

Now running, everywhere, every way – “Out! Move! No, fuck _you_!” – Merry’s threats macheting through the headless, heedless commuter swarm of panic.

“Frodo! Frodo, can you hear -”

“Calling!”

An arriving train, an open door, whether north, south, Yonkers or Iowa, escape gift gratefully received.

“Goddamn!” Merry couldn’t breathe, Frodo couldn’t stand, Pippin was shaking and Sam stricken wild with friend worry, but they had made it, escaped the terror. They were safe. “That was too -”

Ssssssssnnnnnnnniiiiffffffff

“Oh, fuck me.”

“More? There’s _more_ black dudes?”

Two, approaching from the stern car.

“Out! Out! OUT!” Merry’s decisiveness pitching Sam and clinging Frodo through the door, an unavoidable return to the shoving, cursing and screaming –

“What – what is -”

“Terrorists!”

“The Second Coming!”

“Zombies!”

\- crawling against the panicked passenger rip tide. Similar motives all, but disparate routes, New York miasma to the daylight, Merry toward subway platform’s end.

“It’s calling!”

“Mafia, my white ass!”

While Sam dragged Frodo’s left, Pippin propped up the right. “Azkaban mafia maybe.”

_Where, where do I –_ Merry ran searching, away from the herd, searching for escape, the way out, searching – _where should I -_ friends stumbling behind, Merry ran searching for end game - _how do I save my-_

“Here!” A duck in the middle car of an awaiting departure train. “In here!” A tumble in behind, Sam, with a lap full of Frodo, staying put right there on the subway train’s floor.

“Are we safe?” Pippin circle spun, checking and rechecking and rerechecking their haven. “Did we lose them? For good?”

Merry closed his eyes – _life’s not that fair –_ and counted – _five…four…three…two…_

Sssssssssnnnnnniiifffffff

“Fuck! Frodo, Frodo!” Face slaps Sam’s last resort to rouse his unconscious friend, “Frodo! Come on! Frodo! We’ve got to -”

“No.” _Wait…_

Two and two, either end, stench entered their car.

“No? What do you mean, _no_? Those, those, they’re right here!”

“No.” 

Eight seats away.

Pippin, ever the gentleman, appealed to his best friend’s good sense. “Are you fucking _nuts_?!”

“No.” _Wait…_

Hisssssssssss, a hissing now, a syllabant laugh. Hisssssssssss.

Six seats away.

“Out! Out of the fucking way!” Sam and his greater bulk, including sack of taters Frodo under his arm, plowed toward escape. “Not keeping me in -”

An arm, honed to steel by a since fourth grade fencing sabre career barred the way. “No.”

Skittering, three seats away, skittering.

“Merry, please, oh, my god, Merry, PLEASE!” Tugging, clawing, Pippin pleaded for his life, “Merry! Move!”

“No.” _Wait…_

Without lungs charnel breathe. One seat away.

 “MERRY!”

Zero.

Hissssssssssss, a laugh of victory.

_Oh, god, wrong, what if I’m –_

A placid ding.

He pulled.

The platform pile looked up to watch the train pull away, all four things heading to Queens.

“Up! Now!” Rescue not complete, and at this point downtown destination immaterial, Merry headed toward another train, and like all competent commanders, did not rest until all under his charge were safe and accounted for: Pippin pole leaning and maniac giggling - OK, Sam with collapsed Frodo together on the floor – OK and not so OK.

And, Merry? Well, as the train departed the station, poster clogged subway walls blurring by fast – TomBombadilforMayorTomBombadilforMayorTomBombadilforMayor – Merry stood silent – _right, I did something…right –_ and wept.

*******

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, Sam, I’m fine. Just like the last four fucking times you asked me. Why don’t you just back off and leave me the hell alone!”

Sam did and Frodo sulked off two inches tall.

_That’s it, show your thanks by being a shithead._

As the trains had departed and distance between accumulated, Frodo had improved. Rector Street station and normal, (or current situation’s normal), reached simultaneously. All around, staring down at him, friend’s concern, secret love’s worry, a few odd passengers’ pity just too much of back to aware ego to swallow, and Frodo had brusquely, sprinkled liberally with a few choice expletives, shunned all attention, folding shame in with himself.

_When faced with danger, what did I do? Confront it? No. Laugh? No. Even run away screaming like a little kid? I wish. Nope, I fainted, passed out, swooned like one of those prissy ladies in those old black and white movies Aunt Esmie used to watch twenty-four/seven._

So bent on kicking his own ass, there weren’t even any self-granted props for enduring the voice. _I fucking **fainted**! _ Unable to block it, powerless to stop it, the Voice had sapped strength and self, pulling Frodo down to its singular existence, calling, calling, always calling, keening to be found, drawing those things closer, the laughter, cruel and taunting, as reunion came, a victory.

Never happened. The ring was still without its master and once more silent, almost sulking as it lay heavy in his jeans pocket.

_No thanks to me._

No, thanks belonged to Merry for the perfectly executed escape plan, to Pippin for his keen lookout and timely warnings, and Sam –

_Oh, god, Sam! His arms, his strength, cared and coddled, hauled my weak ass all over the subway. Sam!_

With the never again a burden vow solemnly notarized and his I’m shitty pond scum prostrating not of the question apology for Sam in final revisions, all Frodo wished for was Prancing Pony, Gandalf and a hand over the goddamn thing hasty retreat.

_So ready for this to be the end of it!_

“So, where is this place?” Pippin completely at home in the kaleidoscope that was Greenwich Village.

“Not a fucking clue.” Three steps and the Merry begrudgingly accepted All Pekingese Puppy Performance Art flyer was an in the trash can wad. “Get my jollies elsewhere, thank you very much.”

“And where would that be, hmmmm, Merry?”

“Bite me.”

“S and M jollies apparently.”

“Pip, if you -”

“Could always ask.” A suggestion from the Frodo’s anger banished back.

“There.” Frodo pointed to the cross street corner. “There’s the sign.”

One of those old English wooden signs, with a picture of the establishment’s name for the medieval illiterate, a large white horse in 3D relief and –

“Sure enough.” Merry was impressed. “It is indeed prancing.”

They crossed the street dodging early evening traffic, but upon reaching the imposing front door, Frodo hesitated. _But, what if, and then there’s, couldn’t I just snail mail the ring to Gandalf?_

“Frodo,” Sam, solid by his side, “came all this way, might as well finish it.”

“Right.” _After what I said, did, and he is still – really don’t deserve him at all._ “Of course, you’re right, Sam.” One heavy gulp for courage and a push to open.

Expectations? A seething crowd of half-naked writhing sweaty men cheered on by a crowd of leather studded ecstasy flying bikers. _Well, on ‘Queer as Folk’ they_ – Reality? An old English tavern, tastefully decorated with copious amounts of dark wood, rich leather and Tudor style slats lining the walls, heavy beams criss-crossing above dropping light fixtures fashioned like circular candleholders complicit in the illusion. A wooden bar, polished and massive, stretched across one wall, and reflected in the mirror behind a brewer’s UN. Cavernous booths hugged the other wall in which patrons could do likewise – and a few other activities – should mood strike. The one concession given to the modern world - a small dance floor tucked over in the corner with lights flashing beams of color that pulsed to the drum of the canned music. The air was clogged with a myriad of scents: leather and wood, sweat and booze, and a hundred different colognes fighting for supremacy. And beneath it all, the scent of _– ‘Of what?’_ No name tag to place, except just wrong.  
  
“Well, well, well. Who do we have here?”  
  
Across the gleaming bar, lounging big cat bartender.  
  
Frodo stepped forward. “Wonder if you could help us?”  
  
“Anything for you, honey. Name's Barliman. And what name should I put on our wedding invitations?”  
  
A pointed breeze right on by. “ _My_ name is not important. I'm looking for an older gentleman, by the name of Gandalf.”  
  
“Gandalf, Gandalf.” A manicured nail taped against chin. “Oh, yes, old guy, grey flannel fetish, drinks mimosas. Works at Columbia, I think, anthropology or something.”  
  
“Philosophy, and yes, that's him. Could you point out where he's sitting?”  
  
“Love to, sweetie, but he's not here. Haven't seen him since last Saturday night. Wet gym shorts night, you know.”  
  
A physical blow - _Gandalf, not here? -_ the devastating news smacking Frodo square in the chest – _Gandalf NOT HERE? –_ bumbling back into his backboard Sam.  
  
“Not here,” an agitated Merry whisper, “you mean we came all this way for nothing?”

“YOU didn’t have to come, ya know!” A bone of contention Sam reminder.

“And you wouldn’t be here at all, if we -”  
  
“Stop it!” Sniping and bickering not high on the Need Right Now list. _What the fuck do I do now? “_ Let's find a seat.”  
  
“But, Frodo-” Sam’s opposing opinion stopped short.  
  
“No, Sam, he'll be here.” _Where are you, Gandalf? “_ He'll _be_ here.”  
  
The only booth available was in the corner, close to the dance floor, making conversation nearly impossible. Four sticks, that's what they looked like, and they could not have drawn any more attention to themselves had they started tabletop LDS witnessing. A round of beers sent over by the bartender with his compliments and a wave, were sipped sourly in silence, all minds on what next, all eyes on something else than each other.

“So, how ‘bout those Yankees?”  
  
“Oh, this is fucking ridiculous,” Pip popped up, “Black dudes defeated, and I feel like celebrating. Dance with me, Merry.” No choice offered, just a yank up and a drag to the floor, leaving Sam and Frodo to brews and stew alone.

“Maybe we order nachos or something. Really shouldn’t drink without eating, you know.”

“OK, mom!” The harshness immediately regretted. “I’m sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to snap, and that covers the one from before. It’s just that, well, uh, fuck!” and Frodo went back to peeling the label off his beer bottle.

“Can't say I like being told to fuck off, but I understand. To say you've been under some stress is putting it mildly.”

A weak laugh. “Making my own fossil layer as we speak.”

And then a new, strange, heretofore with Sam experience – awkward.

_Say something. What? Something. What? Anything, for Christ’s sake! WHAT?_

Frodo could always talk with Sam, big, small, serious, silly, everything, nothing. If a mind wandered there, Sam and Frodo conversation would tag along. Once they had even expounded for a good two hours on yogurt, the healthy diary treat subject quite thoroughly covered from fruit on the bottom to the probiotic benefits of the Greek variety – including increased regularity – and concluding with an agree to disagree favorite impasse, strawberry-banana v. Dutch apple.

_And, now?_

Now, although they sat beer bottle ring apart, best friend comfort blanket had slipped off shoulders leaving the air between crisp with just acquaintance chill.

_What the hell changed?_

OK, Frodo copped to the stupid question.

_Gay bar, subway, those fucking things, Bilbo, ring._ Enough to mutate any relationship’s DNA. _But, it’s me, it’s Sam, for fuck sake, it’s US!_

And perhaps hammer had finally located that elusive nail.

_Us._

Somewhere in there, from promise to Pony, for Frodo, an Us had taken root.

_Us. Sam and Frodo, god, I love the way that sounds. Sam and Frodo. We’re an Us! Unless – what if he doesn’t, I mean, we’re already an us, a friend us, is that fine for him, the way things are, me and him just – no, no, he does, I’m sure. What he said – ‘only you’ – what he did – his shoulder the best fucking nap I ever – yes, yes, I’m sure, I know, he does, he does, just like me he wants that capital U!_

_I think._

“The music’s good, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, good.”

_Should just say it, come right out and say it, ‘Sam, I love you.’ Say it, tell him I love him so goddamn much, have since, well, since, I don’t know, fucking forever. ‘Sam, I love you.’ Easy, four words, four lousy stinking words. ‘Sam, I love you.’ What would he do? This is Sam, I know what he’ll do. Smile and hug me and kiss me and tell me he loves me, too, and start making forever together plans and –_

_Maybe._

“Beer’s not bad.”

“Not bad, yeah.”

_Tell him. Tell him. Tellhim, tellhim, TELL HIM! That you love him, can’t, won’t live without him, tell him, tell him now, now, tell him now before something else shitty happens, tell him now or the chance may not come again, TELL HIM!_

“Sam, I -”

“Whoop, whoop, whoop! Gangnam style!”

Celebrate, indeed. Merry, beer in hand, moved behind Pip, grinding as their bodies pulsed to the beat - “Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!”  - other hand resting on his belly, while Pip's captured his partner's butt. Denim into khaki, ragged black t-shirt against button-down Polo. Center of the dance floor, center of attention, and the center in each other’s hearts alone.

_Now, that’s an Us._

 They lived together, slept together, ate meals, went to class, even took a piss together. Not a time within recent reckoning had they ever been apart. Diametrically opposed - Merry with his spiky hair attitude and Doc Martins, and Pip, all Southern charm and grace – yet almost indistinguishable. They were just Merry-and-Pip, one entity.

_Could our us be like their us? Tell him now, yes, tell him, I’ll tell him, ‘Sam,’ I’ll say, ‘Sam, I '– he’s frowning, that’s not a happy face, frowning, scowling at, what’s he – Merry and Pip, this place, me? Oh, god, ME?_

Bottle liberated from label’s tyranny, Frodo’s emancipation efforts moved to his thumbnail.

_Me. I know it is, me. Sam’s frowning, angry with me. And he should, I mean, the trouble I’ve, what I put him, wouldn’t even be here if, follow me, drag me, carried me for fuck sake, probably wishing he had never, stupid, stupid stupid, fucking stupid to ever think, hope that he, and me could ever be – this sucks! Fucking sucks! Sucks big hairy ones!_

_Home, just want to go, forget everything, the fear, the voice, the ring, everything, and go back to the way things were – well, not everything, Sam’s hands, Sam’s arms, the touch of his – oh, god, Sam! All those things I’ll never – happy birthday, Frodo._

_Gandalf, where the hell are you?_

Meanwhile, in Sam’s head –

_Gandalf! Arrogant prick. Told him! Fucking told him! And here we are and I was right! One, two…three, a goddamn dozen, all staring, all drooling. Yeah, like Frodo would look at any of you losers. He’s better, better than youse, better than everyone, the best! So, dickweeds, back off! He’s mine!_

“I unplug the coffee pot?”

“Sure you did, Sam.”

_That’s right, he’s mine! MINE! Doesn’t know that, of course, not like he’d want me anyways, leagues apart, so far above, but nobody, fucking nobody – and that includes that guy over in the corner no doubt whacking off – knows Frodo better than me. Like how his tongue sticks out to the left side when playing Xbox, or how he likes his bagel every morning, each side equal with cream cheese. Favorite band – Daft Punk. Favorite TV – he’d say “Breaking Bad” but I know it’s really “Downton Abbey.” I know what makes him mad, what makes him smile, everything, I know, know it all, only me!_

“You OK? Here, take my -”

“Don’t need your jacket, Sam.”

“Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Gangnam style!”

_Merry and Pip. Fucking idiots. Merry and Pip. Fucking trouble. Merry and Pip. Always together. They wear each other’s clothes, finish each other’s sentences, eat off each other’s forks, which is disgusting. Like they’re one person almost. One person. One._

_Oh, god, Frodo! That’s it, you and me, us, one. That’s what I want – without the public groping and tattoos – want so goddamn much! Me and him, Frodo and Sam._

_Yeah, right, like that’s every gonna happen.  Quit bullshitting yourself, Samwise._

_Unless…_

“We’ve been waiting, what, like an hour?”

“Ten minutes tops, Sam.”

_I could tell him, tell him the truth, tell him I love him. Why not? Things are different now, different between us, can feel it, after the hand holding, after the shoulder nap. Things have changed, we’ve changed. Tell him, tell him._

_‘I love you, Frodo.’ Just like that. ‘I love you, Frodo, and you’ll never be alone again. I love you, Frodo and want to spend my life making yours smile. I love you, Frodo and I’d give my left nut if you’d touch your lips to mine just once.’ Maybe not that last part._

_Should tell him, worst that could happen? Laugh, spit, punch, get the fuck out. If that’s it, then kill me now. OK, so medium. He’s flattered, but no. We stay the same, friends only, nothing changes, and I go back to nightly hand jobs._

_But, the best?  Us, Frodo and  Sam. One._

“Frodo, I -”

“Dance with me.”

Gucci suit, perfect teeth, fake and baked, Rolex. Sam actually growled. _Shove that expensive bridge work down your fucking throat, asshat, he’s mine!_

Frodo’s blush was adorable. “No, thank you.”

“Barliman tells you’re into older men.” Undulating crotch right at Frodo eye level. “No grey beard, but at least I’m here.”

The pinched look, not so much. “No, thank you, no desire to dance right now.”

“Come on, lover, just one. You look like you need a good time.”

There went Sam’s cork, flying across the room. “Listen, jerkwad, he already said -”

“Not talking to you, pal.” Diamond ring flashed the hand. “Not interested in downgrading tonight.”

“And neither am I. So fuck off.” Some Frodo fire flashed singed sculpted eyebrows. “Besides, I’ve got everything I need right here.”

And with no anatomical loss, Sam’s wish was granted.

_He’s – he’s – Frodo’s – KISS!_

Knew it was clichéd, he seen it in countless movies, read about it in books and in those 'I never thought this would happen to me, but’ stories in the porn mags his father was so shitty at hiding from mom. Hackneyed, trite and fan-fictiony, but at that moment, leastwise for him, time stopped. The whole of his world and all those  theorized universes stringing out combined winnowed their way down to one bright and dazzling point: Frodo's lips. They were everything he had dreamed and nothing like he had imagined – breath hinting at the cigarettes thought hid from watchful eyes, cheap beer and no sleep. He tasted confidence and shame, rage and serenity, knowledge and innocence, he tasted Frodo.

_Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, don’t care, don’t care._

Shakespeare had romanticized about 'Two blushing pilgrims.' Well, Frodo's lips were more like two Lincoln Navigators slamming, rough and hard. That mouth ground into Sam's, a scalding tongue forcing his mouth to part and accept its invasion. Like a whip, it lashed out, stinging Sam's own, the inside of his cheeks, his teeth, mouth’s roof. Noses bumped, that angle of Sam's mouth just as easy to plunder. Spit pooling, dribbling down as hands snagged in Sam's hair, dragging him closer, closer still. Frodo took, and Sam was powerless to stop him.

_Stop him…why?_

Knew this was all for show, that Frodo was doing this just to get that creep to leave him alone. Yet, as Frodo's mouth smashed into his, Sam gave up and gave in. He wanted it to be like this, needed Frodo to take whatever he desired of Sam, toy with him, tease him, use him for his own pleasure. And, as Frodo's mouth conquered, a small whimper of defeat and fulfillment escaped Sam's soul.

_Yours…always!_  
  
Bottom lip snagged between teeth, with a sucking squishy pop, the kiss ended.

_Again, again, Frodo, please god, again!_  
  
Naughty boy bedroom lashes flutter teased. “Don’t need anything else when I have my Sam.”

Gucci suit stiff legged straight to the bathroom.

Prancing Pony audience demanded an encore, though, and Frodo was primed to oblige.

_Lick – licking me, tongue up my – he just bit my ear!_

A bravura perfromance. Final curtain down.

“Oh, shit! Did you see the look on that guy’s -” Frodo’s triumph turned on a dime sour. “Sam, did I – I did – did _that_?”

Tender tongue touched swollen lips, the copper tinge of blood. “Frodo, you kissed…”

Eyes a well of blue tears. “Sam, I’m, Sam, sorry, so sorry!”

Elated, confused, gob-smacked, rock hard, the kerfuffle that threatened to swamp Sam’s doggie paddle slowed reaction time down to geological erosion speed – _HE kissed me! He kissed ME? He KISSED me! Thank god I’m sitting down –_ so much that while a new space was undergoing renovation in his heart for that kiss, obvious distress signals were missed. “Frodo, you kissed -”

“Don’t, Sam, don’t.” Frodo scratched out of the booth and away. “Just go home, safe away from me.”

_Wait – what?_ “Frodo!” _Don’t let him leave like that, moron! Go after him, go get him, talk to him, tell him! Liked it, LOVED it, want, need again and again and forever!_ “Frodo! Stop!” _Don’t just sit here, move your ass!_  Table leg had other ideas for Sam. “Shit! Knee! Fuck! Frodo!”

Across the dance floor, around necking Merry and Pip, beyond ear shot, Frodo fled a direct path to the front door. Too bad bar stool had table leg ambitions.

“Frodo, be -”

Sam watched it all – the plow into, the stumble over, the descent backwards, the pulled from pocket hands to check fall, then –

“FRODO!”

Just gone.  
  



	4. Chapter Four

The wind

First, the wind

The sound of the wind.

The sound of a windbreaker, Frodo’s windbreaker as a ten year old raced down The Hill, arms outstretched to challenge Aunt Peony’s ‘handlebars at all times, young man’ rule, hand him WAY down shorts wide-mouth billow and the King and Queen flapped spokes, this moment sponsored by giggles of joy and free, instantly snatched up then tossed back to Spring.

A windbreaker sound precise…yet flawed. No blue stripes traced sleeve to cuff, no manicured green blurred by, royalty’s hearts not red. Absent, too, the white yellow shout that beaded neck hot and brown peeled nose.

Here only gray, streaked, abandoned, hulky shapes on horizon infinity, dull cowered with bleak, smothered all in gray.

Only gray.

The wind.

And the Voice.

_I see you._

Not just in his head anymore, not just babble of random nonsense easily ignored, not just sweet words of unattainable, not even the repetitive pleas to return, rejoin, rebirth. The Voice was here, _here_ , here in the gray, here with Frodo. And It was watching.

_I see you._

Away, away, he had to get away, run, walk, crawl, flop away, but where, where was away when It was here, HERE, left right up down, The Voice was all.

_I SEE you._

And he saw The Voice.

Out of the dreary, flame and lighting, roiling colors and shapes, morphing from a miasma of fire, not human, not animal, a giant eye, consuming, destroying, without body, without life.

_I SEE you…_

The Ring. On his finger. Calling.  
  
 _…Frodo Baggins._  
  
Prancing Pony stale assaulted senses, sound system buzzed against back. _Floor? On the floor because…_ No time to quiz that one out, shirt front and collar roughly grabbed and question(s) became as he was without benefit of granted permission propelled across the bar, out through the back door – brief notice of the men or boys restrooms signs – and deposited unceremoniously on to a Grey Goose box pile, _Did anyone see - have gum on my – who the FUCK is -_  
  
“For someone who is trying to keep a low profile, that was quite a little stunt out there.”  
  
Recent memory slammed back. _The kiss or the stunning example of grace?_ “Don't know what you're talking about.” Tried to make his voice menacing. Snowball’s chance against the bulk of the man that glowered down at him.  
  
“Others may be fooled by your little boy looks, but not me.” The hulk cracked the storeroom door checking the dark hallway outside. “That is no trinket you carry.”  
  
“How do you know -” A caught red handed toddler’s mistake. _Shit!_ “I carry nothing.” The cover attempt lame at best, and a flimsy thin one for his spiking fear. _He knows, knows about the – watching me, watching me, grabbed me, dragged me, storeroom, storeroom alone, alone in a gay bar storeroom with a -_  
  
“Yeah, and the Tea Party has grass roots,” a sarcastic chuckle from the giant, “Tell me another one, little man.”  
  
 _And now the creeper tells short jokes. “_ What the hell do you want?”  
  
“What do I want? A Nathan’s dog, a winning hockey team and -” a reach into the depths of the weathered leather that sloughed from shoulder’s broad to retrieve –

_Oh, my godohmygod, here it comes here it –_

\- object tossed, landing in Frodo’s lap square.

“To keep displays like I just witnessed out of the public eye.”

“A letter?”

“I suggest you read it. Many questions will be answered.”

Perhaps even the original. _Who the FUCK IS THIS GUY?_ Gruff demeanor and ragged clothes, Frodo would have pegged homeless person, and, if not at the alley cardboard box stage yet, edge teetering at least. However, so unlike the hopelessness seen in the unwanted creatures who slept on the steps of Bag End, there was an edge, a harshness in the man’s face, lines scratched there by life’s rusty nails. _Knows about the Ring, hasn’t seen a shower, or a dry cleaner in days, hangs around gay bars just-_

SNAP! SNAP! “Frodo!” A quick attention redirection. “The letter.”

“Oh, oh yeah.” Frodo tore into the crinkle messy envelope. _Creeper also knows my name, that’s comfort – could have heard Sam shouting after – oh, Sam! So fucked up with –_ “No way!” Handwriting immediately recognized. _Seen it enough in the margins of my papers._ "It’s Gandalf!”  
  
Another hallway check. “Just read, Frodo.”   
  
 _My Dear Frodo,_

_Sorry that I cannot be there to meet you. If you are reading this than that pansy of a_

_bartender, Barliman, did as I asked. You must continue on to Rivendell. Elrond will be_

_there to advise. I will meet you ASAP._

_Be on the lookout for a big man, tall and handsome, with piercing blue eyes._

_The scenery's name is Strider._

“Strider?”

 With a slight head nod, finally a formalish introduction.

  
_If you two meet up, allow him to take you to Rivendell. He knows the way._

_Yours in haste,_

_Gandalf_

_P.S. Whatever you do, DO NOT PUT ON THE RING!_

  
  
“Now he tells me.”  
  
“I will get you and the Ring to Rivendell, Frodo,” away from the door, Strider extended a help up hand to Frodo, “But, it's not going to be an easy journey.”  
  
“Why? I thought it was just over on the corner of 51st and -”  
  
The door burst open. “Get your perverted hands off of him!”  
  
“Sam!”  
  
All there, all three of them, in the doorway facing down the barrel of a .358 Magnum pulled with practiced ease from within Strider's leather coat.  
  
“Strider!” Frodo bee-lining to stand between him and barstool, mic stand and ashtray. “Don't! My friends!”  
  
The gun remained aimed for a moment longer, and then returned as quickly to its resting place. “You've got guts, I must say that.”  
  
Merry found his voice first. “Frodo, what the fuck is going on? First, you're there, then you're not, then you're back again and this guy -”  
  
“Strider. Here, read.” Frodo handed over Gandalf's letter. “He's a friend and he's taking me to Rivendell.”  
  
“Rivendell?” The over Merry’s shoulder  sneak peruse. “That’s the big place over on -”

“Yes, Pippin,” Strider began to gather things, their departure preparations, “and if the chatter continues, we may never reach our destination.”

A slack jawed stammer. “How – how does he know my –”

“Don’t ask.” In awe, Frodo watched Strider place bags, clip pouches, snap packs, stash satchels in, under, every cranny’s nook on his person, the big gun shoved into pants waistband, switchblade into boots, quarter roll into back pocket and – _wait – was that a SWORD?_  
  
Strider moved to the door with economy of movement, glancing down the hallway, a check for restroom traffic. “Come, gentlemen, we best be on our way.” He left the room without waiting.  
  
“Frodo, you're not seriously going with this guy, are you?”

“What choice do I have, Merry? Gandalf's not here; who do I give the Ring to?”  
  
“Why not just toss it away?” Busy stuffing pockets with bar peanuts packets, Pippin offered his suggestion. “Throw it down the sewer and say, 'Good riddance.'”  
  
The ‘Not no, but, Hell, no!’ head shake. “I can't do that, Pip!” How could he make his friends understand what he had seen while wearing the blasted thing? Explain the malice and hatred that had poured from the all-seeing Eye, not just for him, but for all life? _The Ring talked to me, it would sure as shit talk to whoever found it, and what if they listen, what if they believe the sweet promises? “_ You saw those things, Pip. They wanted the Ring, _this_ Ring,” and he held it out for emphasis. “That's what this Ring is about. Those things, that evil. Do you really want this floating around so just anybody can pick it up and use it? Do you want that, Pip?”  
  
“But, why you?” The pissed off pitiful tone belonged to Sam. “Why do you have to take it? Can't that Strider guy take it to Rivendell? He seems to be going that way anyway.”  
  
“Shit, I don’t know, Sam.” And he really didn’t. On one shoulder sat logic counseling the Strider handoff and an uncowardly retreat from above his pay grade trouble. And from the other – _not a fucking clue. Something, insanity, necessity, inevitability –_ all advice rendered pointing in a single direction. “Whether for Bilbo, or Gandalf or who the fuck ever, all I know is that _I_ must bear the Ring to Rivendell.”

“And if you want to do that, Frodo, I suggest you stop talking about it and follow me.” From the doorway, Strider’s casual posture belied radiating tenseness. “That is unless you want to meet up with those black dudes again.”  
  
Merry and Pip scrambled past Strider and out the door.  
  
“How,” Sam stopped Frodo’s follow, “Just how do you know you can trust this guy, Strider?”  
  
“Gandalf told me I could.” Sam’s eye roll expressed just how much that endorsement increased scruffy man’s bank roll. “Look, if he was going to fuck with me, think he would have done that already.”  
  
Strider still in the doorway. “Come Sam, Frodo. Not a good idea to let those two go wandering alone.”  
  
“Just gonna have to trust me, OK?” A question still clouded Sam's face, though, but it had nothing to do with the Ring or Strider.   _Fuck. The Kiss._ “Not now, Sam.”  
  
With lowered eyes, he followed Merry and Pip's example, albeit at a dejected schlep. “Could have at least combed his hair.”  
  
 _Trust me?_ The simple gold ring burned Frodo's palm. _Can I even trust myself?_  
  
Strider turned out the light.  
  


 

 

 

****

 

 

  
“Oh, look, there's a store. I'm starving!” Strider's firm voice halted the mad dash.  
  
“No time for a detour, Pippin. Must keep walking.”  
  
“But, I'm starving!” Bar peanuts long gone, the whine demanded nutritional action. “Can't we find a McDonald's? Hot dog stand? Vending machine?”  
  
“There will be plenty to eat and time to do it when we reach Rivendell.” 

“Probably watching his carbs.” Merry’s snide unsatisfying to his hungry friend.

“Well, his dietary issues are not -” Puddle middle, the third such he had found, ankle deep. “I want my trip deposit back!”  
  
Over two hours they had been walking, encountering no soul, shadow hiding, darkness lurking, they trudged a completely alien landscape, streets, alleys, mucky garbage encrusted niches all non-existent on New York native Sam’s five boroughs mental map. Broken down and boarded up moaned melancholy, echoes of the long forgotten, and with each Converse squishy step, close to thirty-six straight awake Frodo struggled for the next one.

_So…fucking…tired…so…fuck…ing…ti…red…sleep…need sleep…last time…need sleep…Sam’s shoulder…need sleep…need…Sam._

His heart ached – _Sam…need to explain why…don’t know why…will I…lose even his…friendship?_ – his head pounded – _hear it…saw it…the Voice…the Eye…my name…it knows…It knows…my name_ – limbs trembled, eyes stung, and belly was a painful source of constant grumbling, but he slogged on, chasing a dangling carrot named Rivendell.

_Rivendell…Rivendell and Lord Elrond…Lord…must have caught…shit for that in…yeah, like…Frodo’s any better._

Gandalf had spoken quite often of Rivendell, its proprietor’s wisdom, miraculous accomplishments, stable longevity and unparalleled hospitality - the endive salad with white wine vinaigrette was heaven, and the homemade bread! - all the old man’s effusive praise rubbing a spot of interest onto Frodo. _Going to Rivendell…finally._

Thunder and the blank sky dumped down buckets.

_Though…would have…preferred taking a…cab._

“Strider!” Merry line jumped to the spot right behind their Skidrow tour guide. “So, you know about those black dudes, right? You’ve seen them before?”  
  
“Yes,” down yet another dank, dirty alley that looked remarkably similar to the all alleys since leaving the Prancing Pony, “Many times.”  
  
“So, what are they, WHO are they? Aliens, clones, terminators?”

That Sci-Fi leap tickled the corner of Strider’s lips. “They have been known as many things down through the eons, Merry, but I first knew them as the Nazgul.”  
  
“Nazgul.” Merry tried the name on for size. “ _Naz_ gul.”

“And they're bound to the ring I carry somehow.”  Frodo’s two cents conversation ante.  
  
“Yes, and through the Ring they are bound to -” 

A noise, a screech, a chalkboard fingernail scratch screech noise haunted the vulture clouds, slithering grave stepping shivers down spines.

“Got a bad feeling about this.”

“You should. Come gentlemen, double time.” Flourish of grime married coat, and those same gentles forced into a catch up run.

Now there was nothing but the rain and running, rain and running and that being chased feeling, rain, running, chased and slick slippy cement, rain, running, chased, cement and the side knife stitch, rain, running, chased, cement, knife and the leaden numb of limbs reaching their limit, rain, running, chased, cement, knife, numb and gasping liquid wheezes of too far and slow down why dontcha?, rain, running, chased, cement, knife, numb, wheezes and Pippin’s whines of “Are we there yet?”, rain, running, chased, cement, knife, numb, wheezes, whines and lab rodent empathy as the maze turn twisted taut with Frodo convinced the rumored cheese prize was a lie.

“Fucking, come on, Strider! Enough! Not taking another goddamn step until you -”

Suddenly – a street, and a sky unmasked of fire escape rust and impotent wire webs. A valiant attempt by moon to slice through the crushing dismal, managing a slight sliver film across the deserted street, and providing a mirror for the never ceasing rain.

“We’ll stop here.” And Strider headed where he pointed, the opposite sidewalk.

“What, _this_ is Rivendell?”

A ruin formerly known as a building, exposure bleached plywood muzzled windows, brick a cracked canvas for spray can art, and pocked pitted flyers for the white sale at Goldberry’s and two for one Happy Hour down at the Green Dragon peeled, all teeming life remnants too stubborn to accept obsolesce.

“Well, it’s on the skeevy side of Motel Six, but,” Pippin foot pushed a bag filled with an empty Mad Dog bottle, and something that pushed back, “If there’s free internet and waffles, I’ll -”

“Idiots.” Sam’s irritation enlightened. “The sign says ‘Welcome to Weathertop.’”

The opened door belched out stale air, and the interior wheezed in the sick plywood peeked light. A restaurant of some kind, with round tables and perky café chairs that were now battered and moldy, and on the far wall booths hunched together, their once fine upholstery yellow foam gnarled. Frodo looked down at the trail of footprints he and his companions were leaving in the inch-thick dust on the floor. _A tomb, like a fucking mauso – no, shrine. That’s it, a shrine._ And their entrance had disturbed those who had been honored here.  
  
“Charming place you've found here, Strider.” Three steps in the door, Merry’s enter limits. “It’s fucking filthy!”

“But, the daily special is quiche.” The swipe across the one nail hanging menu board left a slimy brown goop on Pippin’s hand. “And camp potatoes! I love camp – hello. What’s that on the wall?” An archeological dig commenced.

“Don’t give a rat’s ass, it’s out of the damn rain.” Sam peeled off his denim ten pounds heavier with rain water jacket, the T-shirt coming off his back made sucking sounds, Mets blue cotton reluctant to give up the cold and clammy skin it clung to. He wrung out his shirt, drops of water splattering to the floor, random crop circles in the dust. “I hate being wet!”  
  
From Frodo's collapsed place huddled in a booth – _holy shit! -_  he watched Sam undress. Usually modest around the apartment - _unlike my boxers tease_ – he had only viewed Sam without shirt on two occasions – _off bathroom timing and Bag End window washing -_ and then only briefly before something  had been thrown on to hide his chest and blush. _But now –_ rare opportunity indeed pounded – _he doesn’t, everyone else is, I want-_ room gloom and Frodo, a conspiracy of voyeurs. _Show me, Sam, let me see._

Sam’s daily wardrobe of bulky shirts and slouchy jeans heinous guilty for hiding away finely-honed muscles. T- Shirt wring out flexed biceps – _his godamn arms!_ Chest, covered thickly with golden hair and brown nipples peaked with the chill, rippled as he sought to be rid of the last remaining drops. _Run fingers through, hell, tongue!_ Sam turned and a wonderful new vista of strong back and the fine downy line that showed the path to waistband’s border. _My kind of hiking trip._  Sam's skin was a light bronze and nearly flawless, only a cute sprinkling of freckles marked the clean line of his shoulders. _Taste each and every one. Twice._ Shame scorched, Sam an unwitting lust object, but that just cranked the heat higher. _He’s mine, mine alone._ And after the last fucked up two days with a future wound in a gold circle tight, Frodo demanded some slack, called up the memory of Sam’s mouth – _a taste I’ll never partake again, thank you very much –_ and approved the tabletop for membership into their peeping cabal, hand flat palming fly. _Show me, Sam. Show me Sam._  
  
“Thank god for waterproof packs. Sam pulled a dry shirt out, this one white with Mets logo. “Towel, should have packed a -” He spun round, eyes locking with Frodo’s.

_Fuck! Knows, know I’m, over, free show over. Blush, shirt, disgust, storm out, no more Sam, just Strider, the Ring and a dick that’s hard as –_

Never happened. Cheeks did not redden, shirt remained inanimate. No door slam, no shouted obscene accusations, no dramatic departures.  What did? Hand, Sam’s hand, palm molding to chest’s topography, a pinkie flicked nipple, Sam’s hand down, brushing through gold, index navel dipping, Sam’s hand down, below waist, below the line, straight down to – _HOLY SHIT! –_ Sam’s hand and Sam’s eyes continuing the Prancing Pony begun foreplay.

_Me? Was that for, that was for, could he, could we –_

“Get a room.” His into the room limit temporarily extended, Merry opposite Frodo bench plopped. “And a Clorox wipe.”

Moment intruder alert!  Blush flamed and shirt put to Sam cover use, while the hide sex three foot six inches apart evidence turn away wet denim painful. The voiced to Merry’s interruptus sentiment the same. “Fuck off!”  
    
“Sweet Jesus!” Pip yelped and fell back to the floor when two huge eyes met his. Menu had led to walls, and, as others concentrated on creature comforts, he had been doggedly scrubbing the filth away to get to the mystery beneath. “Can see why this place went out of business.” The huge figures of five men, all robed in what seemed to be rich, flowing tunics, stood staring, faces drawn in a tight line. Each held a sword as if constantly on guard and ready to defend. Up off the floor, slimy brown goop on his ass now, “Who’d want to eat with _them_ judging your table manners?”  
  
“This place was more than a mere restaurant.” Strider from the shadows, so quiet his presence had been overlooked, elicited a girly scream or two. “Called Amon Sul by the locals, this place was once grand and important to Arnor, the surrounding community. Always packed, always lively, always something happening here. Ward meetings, League of Women Voters, Neighborhood Watch met in that back room every Wednesday." 

“So what happened?”

“Quarrels, power struggles, that left friends as enemies and families disowned. Amid the strife, when attention was drawn by petty squabbles, an outside investor, with no intention of revitalization, bought up the whole district. People left, and people forgot.”

  
“Yeah, great story, but,” Merry, with the clumsy conversation redirect, straddled the back between two booths, “You said those Nazgul were bound to the ring, the one that Frodo carries. How and why?”  
  
Strider leaned forward out of the dark, bringing his face into the meager light of the room. “The Nazgul, or Ringwraiths as some call them, are both living and dead, and are bound to the One Ring for eternity. Yet, they were men once.”  
  
“Like us?”  
  
“Only taller.”  
  
“Ha, ha.” Tiny bit miffed Merry pressed on. “If they were human once, what happened to them? How did they get so…so…?”  
  
“Icky.” Pip supplied the adjective.  
  
“Through greed and lust for power.” The explanation complex, the voice single focused. “They accepted the nine rings given to them with only the thought of domination in their hearts.”  
  
“ _Nine_ rings?” Frodo was suddenly nauseous. “You mean there's more of those fucking things?”  
  
“Nineteen, actually.” Strider met Frodo's alarm. “But, nine were given to men and all are controlled by the ring you carry, Frodo. That is the One Ring. One Rings rules them all.”  
  
It must have heard their conversation, because at the mention, the Ring began to hum in Frodo's pocket.  
  
“Nine rings turned taller men into Nazgul,” Merry attempted a 21 st century mind wrap around, “And they are bound to the one ring, the one that Frodo has, right?” Strider nodded. “But, who gave them the rings in the first place?”  
  
“Sauron.” The name distasteful. “The Dark Lord.”  
  
“Luke,” Pip breathed into his cupped hand, “I am your father.”  
  
 _The Dark Lord. Sauron. We’ve met._ “The eye.”  
  
“Yes, Frodo, the Lidless Eye. He has been searching for the One Ring over the ages. Within that simple gold band is all his cruelty, malice and hatred towards all living things.”  
  
“And Bilbo found it.”  
  
“It has been safe in your uncle's keeping, Frodo, for many years. But, now Sauron has waited long enough, and is now gathering his strength, his hatred multiplying. And he wants the Ring returned.”  
   
Sam scooted his sitting backwards on chair closer. “Why?”  
  
“To make us all like those Ringwraith guys, the Nazgul,” Merry stated the obvious.  
  
“That's one way to look at it, I guess.”  
  
From a lean on Merry’s leg, Pippin had a query, too. “But, who is this guy, dark lord Sauron?”  
  
Scrubbing hands across stubbly face, Strider searched for the right words. “Sauron was a servant of Melkor, who in turn served Illuvatar. But both turned against the light causing discord to thrive.”  
  
Pip grimaced. “Will there be a quiz after?”  
  
“Illuvatar?” The word stumbled in Frodo’s mouth.  
  
The ultimate answer simple. “He began to song, Frodo.”  
  
“Ribono shel olam.” Sam got blank stares in return. “What? I paid attention in Hebrew school!”  
  
“So, Illuvatar good, Sauron bad.” Pip keeping score. “Right?”  
  
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Merry inquisitive now stained. “You're telling me this ring, those Nazgul are all servants of…of…” He could not finish, and Pip was fresh out of fill ins. “That we’re being chased by the -” Laughter burst shrill. “Oh, Strider! That is so fucking awesome! You had me going there with all that evil making and servant of the dark lord shit. That was too fucking funny!”  
  
“Merry, he's not joking.” Fear’s flame behind Frodo’s words. “Strider is telling the truth. Sauron is real. I know. I've seen him.”  
  
“That's bullshit, Frodo!” Shrill to vehement anger. “It's a load of crap he's passing off to you and you're just dumb enough to fall for it! Dark Lord, my ass!”  
  
“Call him what you will, Merry, he still exists.”  
  
Wheeling on the big man, Merry spat out, all understanding gone. “Shut the fuck up, Strider. No more, not listening to any more of this shit. Come on, Pip, let’s check out the kitchen. Reality I live in says we need to find something to eat.” The door slam didn’t smack his fury on the way out.  
  
Pip mouthed an apology and slunk after his friend.  
  
“Remember, black dudes still on the hunt. Stay here and stay quiet,” Strider commanded as he levered up and went to the door. “There's a pay phone on the corner. Must make a few calls.” Then he slipped out without another word.

“Go figure, all that shit he carries, and no I-Phone. Am I right, Frodo? Frodo? _Frodo_?”

The truth brick ton hit the target square burying Frodo deep. The walking no sleep dead, soaking prune wrinkly wet, ravenous eat tofu hungry, blue ball Sam frustrated Level One combat easy when contrastedly compared to Strider’s parting shot. _Still out there, still hunting._ Too much, over load, gross maximum achieved and surpassed. _Still hunting me._ And with a perverse sense of impeccable timing, the Ring dog piled on. _The Eye knows, knows my name! I’ve got what It wants, won’t stop, won’t stop until, hunting me, watching me, weakening me, devouring –_

“Hey.” 

The rocking trembles unnoticed until banished by Sam’s touch.

“Here, put on some dry clothes.” The backpack offered up. “No point in getting sick on top of the rest of this shit.”

Sliding out of the booth, though wanting so much more, Frodo accepted Sam’s clothing gift. “Thanks.”

“Better check what’s going on in Kitchen hell.” Sam’s exit unassuming.

Alone. Frodo was alone - _first time in over two days –_ and it was bliss. _And Sam knew. He knew I needed this. Dry clothes and alone. How, no fucking clue, he’s just amazing that way, and I’m finally alone._ No duty to imbibe in pleasant chatter, no more ignoring sanity questioning glances, and definitely no more championing stalwart appearances.  _Alone I’m just ordinary, boring, fucking petrified Frodo._ The venue intimately familiar with crappy, circumstances blowing hard, but the close flying battle formation of fucks off Frodo’s radar. “Alone. I’m alone! Just me – ”

_“Frodo Baggins.”_

“And the Ring.”

He knew and believed everything Strider had said. He listened to the Ring's whispers – _calls me by name now. Fucking fantastic. -_   looked in the Eye, and every one of Strider's words were bone-chillingly true. Also knew that the big man was holding back, hiding that other dropped shoe, that the One Ring tale told was missing a chapter or two. _And when do I get to hear it all, know the end? When I’m facing mine?_

A knee to nihilism’s groin. _Stop it! Just stop! Don’t waste precious alone time wallowing in – think good things, dry clothes, think happy things, Rivendell soon, wonderful – Sam._

Pulling out of jeans, legs sucking inside out, and sneakers and socks slopping to the dust, a smile bow curved Frodo’s lips. _Sam. Sam! What the hell was that, that little show of his, never in a million years would I have thought he, and right in front of Merry and, hand across his chest, his broad chest, hand right through his hair – of which I’ve none, damn it – down it went, his hand, smooth, strong, and warm, his hands are always warm, just the right warm, even with the fucking – down, his hand, lower and lower, into his belly – shit! That tickles! – lower and lower and there, right there! Fuck, right –_

“Pip! Watch out!”

Huge crash bang boom from the kitchen and Frodo was standing barefoot goose pimply in soggy boxers, holding his own junk.

_The middle of this story kinda' sucks, too._

Clean shirt dug out – _not my fav, but beggars and horses and all_ – and dry jeans tugged over – _watch the zipper! –_ impromptu self-groping residue, damp, dusty soled Converses right after new socks, the Ring snuggled into its keeping safe place – _right there against my hip, right where I can feel it, always –_ and Frodo was - 

“Hell yeah! Now we’re getting somewhere!”

 - blinded by fluorescent light.

“Let’s see if we can’t get the stoves working.”

_No, no, NO NO NONONONO –_ “NO! They’ll see! They’ll see!” A careening kitchen sprint. “What the fuck are you doing? Turn it off, turn it off!”  
  
“Just found some beans,” Pip held up their treasure, “and a few of those little jars of mushrooms. Can't expect us to eat them cold now can you?”  
  
“Are you crazy? The light! They are still out there! Black dudes, Nazgul! They'll find us by the light!” Frodo dove for the switch and returned them to darkness.  
   
“Hey! I worked hard to get those back on!”  
  
Frodo right up in Merry’s face. “Why don't you send up a damn flare? Or better yet, run out into the street shouting, 'Hey! Over here, Nazgul! Come and get us!”  
  
“Frodo, it's not that bad,” a placating Sam, “Is it?”  
  
“You turning on the light amounts to the same thing, Sam! They will know we're here!”  
  
The buoyant mood in the kitchen fell flat. “Sorry, Frodo, it won't happen again. We were just so hungry, that's all.”  
  
With the darkness surrounding them once more, Frodo calmed down. _The light wasn't on long, on long enough. Right?_ “Soon, OK, soon, and I’m sure there'll be tons of food in -”  
  
“Rivendell.” The Greek chorus giddy with anticipation.  
  
“Now just come out of the kitchen and wait in the room for Strider like good little delinquents.” With heads hanging low, Merry, Pip and Sam Bataan marched past Frodo to the front of the restaurant. “Said he would be back in just a -”  
  
A room full of Nazgul. Five this time, and determined not to fail.

“Not now! Not again, fuckers!” Scythe through wheat, Sam and grabbed weapon on the fly chair hit the far wall with a crunch.

“Sam!”

“Frodo! Get behind -” the tags still on new defensive wall breached by mere bony brush off, Merry and Pippin crumpled heaps speed bumping Frodo’s retreat.

_"You are alone, Frodo Baggins.”_

“Fuck! Strider! Back off! Sam! Fuck!” Stool, booster seat, dish bin, drink specials, flung frantic to cheat out one more second, one more moment, “Goddamnit! STOP!” feet stumbling back, hand scrabbling for anything, everything, “STOP!” waved away ineffectual, inconsequential, as the fetid malice noose tightened.

" _All alone.”_  
  
“Shut up, shut up, SHUT -” Done, the end, game halted, mouse trapped between back wall and black dudes.“Out, out, get out, no way, no way, no - ” _One way._  

_“It is over, Frodo.”_

Down -   _I can’t –_ down – _I can’t_ – wallpaper stumps snagging, scratching, Frodo sliding to the floor – _Gandalf said, never again, Gandalf said –_ curl in, squeeze in, small, tiny, teeniest ball – _I can’t –_ world eclipsed by the faceless – _can’t put on –_

_“And I win.”_

Cheat for one last breath, defiance smiled. “Think again, fucker!”

Frodo disappeared.


	5. Chapter Five

  
Chapter 5

 

 

“Think again, fucker!”

Frodo disappeared.

_How Burtonesque._

The wind, the grey, the soul piercing nothingness – check. Five Nazgul, the same Weathertop five towering above, bleached bone, skin stretched taut over angles sharp, eyes hollow pits, hair stringy wind lashed worms, on each head a tarnished crown, every mouth animus snaggled.

_Yeah, that’s new._

You see, Frodo had had no desire to wear The Ring again, the memories of its world still nightmare fresh. He would have gladly accepted any and all suggestions and/or solutions – trap door, time warp, shower scene sequence, Strider with a flaming torch, but backed into the literal corner, his friend scattered motionless all around, option’s nil forced the inadvisable, and he deus ex machina’ed himself away.

Once invisible, plans on the fly unclear as to what now, and they should have expected company, what with the whole tied to The Ring for eternity fate. Nonetheless, Frodo was surprised, scared shitless, and a bit miffed to have leapt and still be sitting in both frying pan and fire.

_Me and five Nazgul. Fucking great._

_“Frodo Baggins.”_

Oh, and the host for the evening, The Eye.

_“I see you, Frodo Baggins.”_

_Well, I see you, too, dickhead, but you’re not getting The Ring._

Pissed off was good, royally pissed off even better. Anger engendered strength, strength stiffed backbone and a rigid spine would hold him sure against Sauron, even with the puling puddle of piss in his pants fear it waded in.

_“The Ring is mine!”_

_Tough shit._

_“Give me what is mine!”_

_Fuck off!_

_“Then I will take it.”_

The threat cracked a few vertebrae, but Frodo heel dug deep, hoping fierce façade would cancel out trapped prey reality. _Yeah, I’d like to see you – what – whatwait-wait-stop! STOP!_

Without Frodo’s action, without Frodo’s consent, his hand moved, towards the Nazgul, towards defeat. The Ring in control, puppet Frodo danced to the Mater’s whims.

_NO – STOP – STOP – can’t -_ The fight valiant, but decided before it had begun, The Ring wished to return _– shit – can’t – STOP!_

Five, knobby desiccated twigs stung out, Frodo’s flesh seared to ice whipped, by Ringwraith robes.

_STOP!_

Laughter, jagged bitter, The Eye in final triumph.

_“Weak, Frodo Baggins, weak like all the others.”_

Yeah, that did not go over too well.

_Weak, like the others?_ Backbone obsolete what with righteous indignation’s tantrum brewing. _How’d you lose the fucking thing in the first place, huh? That guy…whose name I can’t remember cut it off, was that weak? My Uncle Bilbo kept it safe and hidden from you for years, was that weak? Strider and Gandalf, Merry and Pippin, Sam, who could carry the world on just one shoulder, you think they are weak? And me? Be I half as brave and true as they, how’s about this for some weak?_

A simple wrist flick and The Eye was denied.

_“NO!”e_

_Yeah, think I’ll keep this for a little while longer._

The Nazgul seethed, rancor and hate continued the flash and flame, but Frodo was done. Hand poised on The Ring, he was ready to yank the gold band from his finger, to leave this horror to return to another just as bad, for no doubt they would be waiting for a game of short guy kickball, and fear still watered his guts and mushed his brain, but he earned a gold star, for he had faced, stood before The Eye, and won.

_Fuck you and your band of Nobodies._

Now, just a short walk to Rivendell, an easy cursed jewelry transfer, then back home, back to normal, back to just Frodo Baggins, former Ringwraith mag –

Seems he forgot Sauron’s lovely parting gift.

Screech, high, unholy, ice picked through his head, and though the dust dark of Weathertop swooshed his return, the cry continued, inhuman ululations of despair and anguish piercing the confusing empty, the scorch gouging deep, fragile flesh mutilated by revenge, condemning the sound as his own.

_Nazgul…sword…shoulder…_

Take all the skinned knees and stubbed toes, the broken arm from falling out of a tree while playing Ninja Turtles, the thigh burn from a chemistry experiment gone wrong, the twisted neck from his one and only car wreck, sprained ankles, torn ligaments, bruises, stitches, bangs, bumps and cuts, ball roll them all into one big wad and – _oh…god…_ pitch it ‘cause the suffering that coursed through his body had no name or rhyme. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think, there was only pain, the seizing oblivion and an abomination touched soul.

_It’s…it’s now…now in…me._

 

 

********

  
  
  
“Blood! There should be more blood, shouldn’t there?”  
  
“Oh, he’s so cold, so cold!”  
  
“Frodo? Can you hear me?”  
  
He could, sort of. Distant and disembodied – _where am…_ voices swirled in the murk, voices with names on tongue’s tip, and if he could just ignore the sales pitch, which was indeed compelling – _tired…_  offering a 2 for 1 deal – pain and fear forgotten for the one low continued unconsciousness price – reaching through to awake a district eh possibility. _…so…hurts…_

“Why doesn’t he wake up?”  
  
 _Sam…Sam? -  Sam!_ Impulse buy temptation resisted – _put on…I put on…shit -_  Frodo fought against the clingy shroud – _out out out! -_  scratching and tearing limbs, heart and mind free. _Sam! I’m here, I’m here! SAM!_

“Wait, I think – Frodo? _Frodo_?”

Vision hazy, shapes only, sounds all inside a bucket, limbs held wet sand captive, and for his shoulder, to say a ground in by stilettos glass shards nuclear reactor meltdown, well, comparison paled. _Fucked, I’m so…_ “Sam?” and he was thrilled to see the voice was his own.

“Frodo! Oh, my god, you’re back!” Sam’s eyes a teary joy. “Strider! He’s back, Frodo’s awake!”

The big man swam into view. “Frodo?”

Concerned, controlled panic bore down and Frodo’s FUBAR situation was confirmed. “Cold…so cold.”

Life experienced leather floated down. The scent of dirt and sweat, street and diesel, fatigue and lonely banished the cold to the suburbs, but assuaged little of the pain. “My arm, can’t feel my…arm.”

Opening the coat, and tearing t-shirt underneath, Strider assessed the damage. At first, Frodo wished to see, wanted to know, _my shoulder, my body, my right._ When he watched the faces of Strider and his friends, however, change from worry to horror, both equal in their abjects – _yeah, ignorance is sometimes a good thing._ “The Nazgul,” a dry croak, “Ringwraiths, where did they go?”  
  
Strider was frantically searching the secrets of his coat. “Gone. Once this wound had been inflicted, they slunk back to the shadows to wait for the poison to take its toll. No need to hang around, just collect their prize after your dead.”  
  
 _Their prize, a prize that I -_ Dread squeezed Frodo’s chest. “The Ring! Where’s the Ring?” Violently flopping, near off the table, an agony disregard, good arm blundering blindly, “Where’s the goddamn Ring?”  
  
“Hey! HEY!” Sam snagged the flailing hand. “In your pocket, Frodo. I put it in your pocket.”  
  
 _Yes, yes, there, right there -_ Frodo deflated, voice gone, voice silent, but - _can feel it, feel it, safe, the Ring is safe_.  
  
“Merry, did you get those stoves working?”  
  
“No, but they’re electric and I got that going.” Arms wrapped tightly around his chest, he hovered about extraneous. “Why?”  
  
Strider held up a small, clear Ziploc, odd collection of leaves snug in one corner. “This.”

“You need a stove to roll a doobie?”

“Athelas, Merry, and it will help ease Frodo’s pain and stall until we can seek Lord Elrond’s help. Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Sam hated that word.  
  
“Aye.  Frodo has been struck with a Morgul blade. Serious and deadly. If its poison is allowed to spread he will be lost to us, Frodo will become like the Nazgul, a Ringwraith.”  
  
“OK, not happening,” Pip’s executive decision, “What do we have to do with that weed of yours to cure Frodo?”  
  
“Boil it in water, and allow him to breathe the scent.”  
  
“Right.” Merry to kitchen and stove detail.

“Got it!” Pip also to kitchen, then right back again, pot in hand. Door flung wide - “Water,” then he went to collect some that which nature had so copiously provided.  
  
Pip dodge to a Merry follow. “Stay with him, Sam.”  
  
“Didn’t even have to tell me, Strider.” Sam by friend’s side, one hand sharing body heat, the other gently stroking Frodo’s brow.  
  
“Sam, it hurts,” admission forced real through clenched teeth, “hurts so fucking much.”  
  
“Well, a sword did go through your shoulder. What the hell did you expect?”  
  
“Thanks for your sympathy, wanker.” But, Frodo smiled in spite of his words.  
  
“There we go, that’s better,” Sam smiled back, “Laughter is the best medicine they say.”  
  
“Screw laughter. Give me a handful of Lortabs.”  
  
Sam closed his eyes, wince marring brow. “Yeah, I could take a few of those myself.”  
  
“Shit, Sam, sorry, I forgot. How’s your head?”  
  
“Nice lump, but no scar that I can show off to my friends.”  
  
“No, your head’s too fucking hard. Told you, you shouldn’t have come with me.”  
  
Sam indicated their plush surroundings. “What, and miss all this?” With a Frodo cheek caress he tightened the focus to only a two shot. “What, and miss all this?”  
  
“Glad you didn’t listen to me, Sam.” Shoulder easing down to jack boot stomping, Reciter scale fear sloughing to magnitude three, and everything horrible, terrible, no good and very bad conquered by the simple touch of Sam’s hand. _Magic, fucking magic, Sam is, love, fucking love, Sam is my, forever, fucking forever, could Sam be?_ “So glad you’re here.”  
  
A kiss breezed tender on Frodo’s forehead. “Always, Frodo, I’ll _always_ be here.”

Strider back from the kitchen, “Sam, it I may?” under and around clasped futures deftly insinuating to his patient in close, “This should help, Frodo,” while genteelly inconspicuousing his tender moment intrusion. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”  
  
The clanging curses from the kitchen changed into success shouts, and soon a sweet odor wafted through the room chasing away the dank and dusty. Returning from the kitchen, winning recipe explained.  
  
“You take a pot.”  
  
“An ancient stove.”

“Rain water.”  
  
“A bit of grass wanna be and –”

“BAM! You’ve got -”  
  
“Athelas!” Both Iron Chefs preened.  
  
Frodo breathed in deeply, filling lungs with the balmy fragrance. Whether the scent of the steeping athelas – _jasmine and Pine Sol_ \- or the weed muck that Strider packed into his wound – _wad of spitty snot -_ or even the sensation of Sam’s ministrations – _fucking want forever –_ Frodo did not care. The pain was ebbing, safe was Sam by his side, and with his sleep rain check still good, weary lids closed Frodo down for a while.

_And the Ring, the Ring is still…mine._   


*******

 

 

He awoke to a wonderful view of Strider’s ass.

“Was – this – rea – lly – ne – ces- sary?”

“Either me or the Nazgul, Frodo.” Strider didn’t word mince.

“O-K-you-can-put-me-down-now!”

Wish granted immediately, Frodo sung expertly off Strider’s shoulder, and placed with antique china care in a trash lousy doorway. “You’ve got five.”

Instant Sam there to over fuss. “Feeling alright, Frodo?”

Shoulder stabs had returned; skin ember smoldering under the makeshift bandage. Left arm was lead, gone to sleep and no matter what position the blood would not flow back in bringing that wanted prickly feeling. His eyes were gritty from too many hours in contacts, his tail bone smarted from his tumble on the dance floor, those blisters on his feet were still making their presence known, and he hadn’t eaten, taken a shower or brushed his teeth in over two days. _Feeling alright, he asks me?_ “Fine, Sam, just fine.”  
  
Eyes narrowed. “Well, you look like shit.”  
  
“Great”, a weakling smile, “Just the look I was going for.”  
  
“Do you feel well enough to walk?” Strider, the ever watchful.  
  
“Say no, Frodo, say you want to rest some more,” the MerryandPip stoop collapsed heap. “Say you want to stay here for the next three days.”  
  
“You are more than welcome to stay here, Pip,” a most accommodating Strider, “Of course, it’s going to get awfully lonely when the rest of us leave.”  
  
“You wouldn’t leave me here alone?” Pip looked stricken. “Would you?”

Merry’s wise words. “There are some stupid questions, Pip.”

“You would!”

Stride the epitome of a pled fifth.  
  
“I can walk.” Spirit’s conviction failed to consult flesh’s fragility, legs throwing in with Pip on the staying thing, bump off Sam’s chest checking the fall down. “Just not sure about standing.”  
  
“Time’s up.” Strider stepped out of the doorway and into the rain, waiting for his charges to grunt like old ladies getting up from their chairs.  
  
“How far now, Strider?” Pip whinge reluctantly moving, “When will we reach Rivendell?”  
  
“In about an hour.”  
  
“You said that _two_ hours ago!”  
  
That all too infrequent smile visited the gruff man’s face. “What? Aren’t you enjoying your tour of the back streets of New York?”  
  
Pip fell into step behind him. “Oh, it’s been grand! Tell me, when do we visit the other highlights? Like the dump or the vast underground sewer system?”  
  
“Don’t give him any ideas, Pip.” A back of head shut the fuck up I love you smack from Merry. “Are you sure you can do this, Frodo?”  
  
Frodo’s walking stiff, halting and not particularly attractive, but, no matter the good Jagermeister shooter buzz on technique, walking he was. “I got this, Merry, I’m fine.”  
  
“Bullshit.” But, Merry did not pursue the matter, only gave his friend one more hard stare, than turned his attention inward.  
  
The streets they traversed were in the sun light, yet the oppressive emptiness lingered. Omnipresent rain was a constant bother, sluicing off hair, downspouted into tired eyes. After about the fortieth time or so, he stopped swiping his arms across his face, and allowed the rain free access. The wound was ablaze in his shoulder, each step brought another knife jab into his weary body. Frodo toyed with the idea of asking for more of that weed muck - _athelas? Is that what Strider called it?_ \- for it had helped somewhat. Reluctant, though, to bring attention to his weakness - _Better just to grin and bear it._ Next step agony shards scraped spine. _Asshole who coined that can go fuck himself. Sideways._  
  
Sudden warmth blanketed, and he looked up to see Sam’s arm about his shoulders. “Guess that knock on my head did more than just give me a raging headache. Feeling kind of wobbly. Mind if I lean on you for a while, Frodo?”  
  
 _He knows. I know he knows. He knows I know that he knows exactly what he's doing._ “Of course, Sam, lean on me for as long as you like.” The arm tightened and Frodo held Sam up by leaning in and cozying up to his chest. _God, I love him! Does he know?_  
  
“Where is everybody?” Merry suddenly running out into the vacant street. “It’s got to be at least 8 o’clock in the morning, and look at this place. This is fucking New York City! Even the whores are take a number. Where are all the people?”  
  
Strider did not stop, his pace actually quickening. “Yes, this place is deserted, has been for many years. But, kindly keep your mouth shut, Merry. There may not be anyone here, but there are always those that listen.”  
  
“Have to have damn good hearing.” Cupped hands to mouth shouted Merry’s taunt. “Derek Jeter sucks!” The slate morning sky slashed jagged, chalkboard nails echoing off the empty buildings. Distant, but unmistakable. “Oh, shit.”

Pip turning in frantic circles. “The Ringwraiths are Yankees fans?”

“The Nazgul.” Frodo stumbled, on fumes energy instantly sucked away, and, as always, their proximity turned up The Ring’s volume. “They want…they need…”

_“They are coming, Frodo Baggins.”_

All about, a discordant round of cries and shrieks, question and answer, seek and find approaching nearer…

_“They are coming for you.”_  
  
“Didn’t learn the lesson of Weathertop, huh, Merry?” Strider pushed his no longer protesting obligations splashing down the sidewalk, “We cannot stay here!”

 “Frodo, can you hear, Frodo, are you alright?” Sam’s strength alone kept them forward moving.  “Frodo, talk to me!”

…nearer…

“The Eye wants,” mumble murmurs from Frodo’s blue lips, “the Eye needs…”

_“I must have.”_

Strider half a block ahead. “Sam, move faster!”

A wall, a wave, a tsunami wave of sound, of hate, of glee, left now up, south now behind, a hum rushing in low, the Furies harmony Dopplering inevitable.

“Fuck you, Strider! Moving as fast as we – Frodo? Frodo can you – as fast as I can!”

_“I WILL have -”_

“The Ring!”

In his arm circle, Sam held a rag doll. “ _Frodo_!”

The very air, forced in by life, heaved out by terror, banshee dripped, wails inside head shrill, tiny crystal cracks shattering, imploding to slice deep, and the hum, the hum, single, separate, power, pulsing, driving danger forward.

“Fuck, fuck! Frodo! FUCK!” What, how, he didn’t know, which way, where now, to protect, protect the dead weight he cradled. “Frodo! Come on! Frodo, wake up! Frodo, please!”

“Sam! Hurry! Here! Faster!”

Run. Run, that’s it, basically the last two days was run. What was another hundred, two hundred, a thousand yards for Frodo. He could do this, the subway, the restaurant, failures all, but this time he would, this time he must. “Frodo! Hold on!” Jerked into motion, one shaky leg then another, sneakers bumbling slicked sidewalk, spasmic rhythm kept even by flopping fainted arms. “Almost there, Frodo, we’re -” each word scratched out, every breath tortured in, “almost -” over his shoulder Nazgul bellows, hum racing towards straight ahead, limit and end within sights, just a few more stumbles and – “almost -”

“Sam! Watch -”

He didn’t.

“FRODO!”

There never reached.

A crack, a hole, a broken off piece of rain slimed concrete caught, then tossed away, Sam tripping, skipping, stuttering, then thrice a failure plummeted straight down.

“Frodo!” Inanimate precious gift spared, cocooned in Sam’s arms, fall’s twisting brunt slapped hard against endurance surpassed back. “Frodo, can you, are you -” But, the pleas went unheard, the splish splashy steps of arriving rescuing Strider, even Nazgul shrieks were rendered mute by the fast approaching mechanical roar. “What now, huh?” Sam had no more to give, “What fucking now!”

Birthing from the fog, a smidgen…a luminous speck…a spot dancing radiant…a star flashing against the rain soaked sky…a sphere blinding brilliant, day’s dull drab subsumed, contagion banished, the very air sparkles of …a Spyder, monochrome white smoozing up to curb, idle velvet, tags diplomat.

A Strider sigh. “Glorfindel.”

Merry and Pip huddled to the side. “No, pretty sure that’s a Ferrari.”

Lithe grace and superior attitude in a Versace suit emerged. Grey eyes place precisely in fine boned features examined the raggity sopped sidewalk tableau before him. “You called?”

“Son of a bitch!” Strider off the curb advancing on the GQ ad had Merry and Pippin taking bets on first punch facial placement when, “God, it’s good to see you!” an engulfing hug happened instead.

“Too long, my friend, much too long.”

“About damn time you got here. Called over six hours ago.”

“Well, you know me,” prefect cuff and tie adjustment, “timely entrance a must.”

The brief reunion over, Strider’s gruff demeanor regained. “As I said in my message, we are in need of Elrond,” crouching to Sam, who sat on the saturated sidewalk with Frodo across his lap, "Only his skills can help now."  
  
“Glorfindel? What kind of a name is that?” Merry closely watched the newcomer kneel to his friend's side.  
  
Pip took in the long blond hair stream down the man’s back, tied with an intricate pattern of braids. “I dunno. Swedish?”  
  
Glorfindel reached out to touch Frodo, but was denied by Sam. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s alright, Sam,” Strider soothed mother bear, “He’s here to help.” Sam’s wary acquiesced, but eyes never left the new guy.  
  
“You used athelas, I see,” Glorfindel examined the poor excuse of a bandage on Frodo’s shoulder.  
  
“The last I had.”  
  
Pulling aside the sopping wet and now completely useless material, Glorfindel explored Frodo’s wound with expert fingers.  
  
“Ow! Shit!” Frodo coming to life in Sam’s arms. “That fucking hurts!”  
  
“This is Glorfindel, from Rivendell,” Strider’s  introduction quick, “and he is a friend.”

Frodo wrestled up. “Well, tell Mr. Glorfindel to keep his fucking hands to himself.”  
  
The impeccably tailored suit stood. “Oh, he’ll get along quite nicely with Lord Elrond, no doubt.”  
  
Banished to the margins by the new arrival, the Nazgul shrieks a chapter not yet complete terrifying reminder.  
  
Glance shared between salon coiffed and matted greasy.  “E innas u’brono anann. Sen lothton athan Brannon Elrond curu.”  
  
“E Colocorma. Carman surie.” Strider reply just as incomprehensibly urgent.  
  
“Definitely not Swedish.”  
  
Pip’s eyebrows shot up. “Gaelic?”  
  
“Right,” Glorfindel reached down and plucked Frodo from Sam’s grasp. “Let’s get you to Rivendell.”

“What the hell are you -”

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Frodo protested, squirming in the strange man’s grasp, “What the – what the fuck! Put me the hell down!”  
  
Moving Frodo about his arms feather like, Glorfindel strode to the passenger side of his car and deposited his bundle. “Whatever you say!”, then shut the door quickly, cutting off Frodo’s next curse.  
  
Sam bum rushed the car, but Strider’s strong arm stopped him. “This is what is best for Frodo, Sam. Glorfindel with see him safely to Rivendell.”  
  
“But -”  
  
Grey eyes bore into Sam’s. “Frodo must go, or he will die.”  
  
Wisdom spoke true, “OK, Frodo goes,” but wisdom had faults, too. “If this high and mighty Lord guy hurts one hair…”  
  
He practically skipped around the back of the car. “All nine are out there now, my friend. Be careful.”  
  
“Yours is the more perilous journey.”  
  
The Ferrari rocked with muffled shouts of indignation. Flawless  eyebrows raised,  Glorfindel canted head to the side, listening. “This is going to be such fun.” He opened the door.  
  
“-out of this fucking car right now, I’m gonna-” The slammed door brought Frodo’s rampage to a dampened end.  
  
The Spyder sped away taking Frodo and a bright glow with it.  
  
“Come, gentlemen,” Strider pulled attention back, “We must continue to travel the old fashioned way.” They took up familiar positions: Strider, then the morose Pip, followed by a very edgy Merry and Sam bringing up the rear, his arms achingly empty.  
  
“How soon ‘til we get there?”  
  
None could see the sly smile on Strider’s face. “An hour or two.”  
  
Pip just groaned.  
  
  
                                     * * * * * * *

  
Inside, Frodo was still at it. “Aren’t you listening? We can’t just leave them. Those things -”  
  
“The Nazgul,” Glorfindel skillfully made a left hand turn from the right lane.  
  
“I fucking know what they’re called, got the gaping wound to prove it, and they’re still out there, and so are my friends!”  
  
“Frodo, your friends are in no danger.”  
  
“But, the Ringwraiths -”  
  
“Are after you.”  
  
A truth bitch slap. “Oh.”  
  
“At this very moment all nine Nazgul are converging on the one place they do not want you to reach,” the fed CD disappeared into the slot, “and that is the one place we must.”  
  
“Rivendell. Will we make it?” the voice small, “Will we make it to Rivendell?”  
  
Glorfindel eased  up to 90. “Probably not.”  
  
Windshield wipers shushing the window, always a wistful sound, like the slam of a screen door at summer’s twilight, or the tinny sound of a transistor radio from a distance.   _Uncle Pal shouting at Sox games._ The wiper beat swung jazzy counterpoint to shoulder throb bass line – _where’s a piano and sax when you need them,_ and both smashed against a serene shore. _So, he’s an Enya fan! Not so fucking perfect after all._ Leather seats supported with comfort – _oh, fuck, yeah –_ heater blew blessed warmth – _not Sam warm, but –_ and Frodo’s troubles – _Nazgul, nine, Rivendell too far? –_ eased back into obscenely expensive’s embrace.

_What, what is she -  ‘codlad fada long sleep’ -    what does that even mean? This is not music, Dave Matthews is music, Barenaked Ladies is music, Arctic Monkeys is music, ‘do you ever get that fear that you can’t shift the type a-_

Window meet Frodo’s forehead.

“Shit!”

“Probably a good idea to catch a few while you can, Frodo.” Glorfindel casually glanced in the rearview mirror. “You never know when -”

“No, I’m fine.” As much of a sit up as leaden arm and screaming shoulder would permit. “I’d rather stay awake, thank you.”

Another mirror check. “Whateves.”

_Don’t go to sleep, no sleep, awake, I’m awake!_ Forced wide open eyes clear and convincing proof. _I’m fucking awake!_ Not going to happen again, not going to happen a third – _fourth –_ time. Pass out in one location, wake up in another without any memory of what transpired between. _Hate feeling clueless, helpless, and Strider’s ass._ He watched the rain instead, mapped the water trails zigzagys, the drop distorted sidewalk umbrellas streaking red, blue and busy. _They’re still out there, had to leave them, no choice, best choice, trust Strider, he’ll get them to Rivendell, safe to Rivendell. See them again, no doubt, soon, real soon, Merry and Pip and Sam…Sam, oh, Sam! When he, and then he, Sam kissed my, held my, held his, hold my, hold me, Sam, touch me right –_

BANG!

Swerve threw Frodo hard into the door. “FU -” body jerked back to the left “-ck!” Eyes opened to a Ringwraith sailing by his window.

“How far,” the car jumped again, “how far to Rivendell?”

“Two blocks,” Glorfindel’s calm dire situationally abnormal, “Just on the other side of Bruinen Street.”  
  
The building grew before him, less like concrete commerce cookie cutter then organic, Rivendell appeared to sing from within. Surrounded by NYC impossible tall trees, it beckoned the weary traveler to find solace and –

SCREECH!

Frodo dashboard bounced. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me? A red light? _Now_?”

The seconds snailed by. _Don’t look._ Glorfindel steering wheel tapping, Frodo thumbnailing his teeth. _Only freak, don’t look, don’t look!_ Glorfindel checked his seat belt, Frodo scritched against his. “Fucking, come on! How long is this light?” _Don’t look, don’t, don’t, don’t fucking look back!_ Glorfindel picked fuzz from his sleeve, Frodo picked – “Holy shit!” He looked back – five Nazgul advancing through traffic, the other three jaywalking from the corner. “Change, change, fucking light you better -”

“Hold on, Frodo!” Spyder lurched into oncoming traffic, an Escalade missed by a second coat of paint distance.

The Nazgul screeched, The Ring shrieked - _“Give me what is mine!” -_ Frodo caught in the middle, as the car twisted right, his own pain screams accompanied by a chorus of horns and New York’s finest curses.

“I’ve always wanted to try this.” A Fifty-First street sidewalk drive. “Kinda’ fun, don’t you think?”  
  
 _I’m gonna make it, gonna make it._ His goal, his sanctuary one NY City block away. _Gonna make it, gonna make it, gonna make -_  
  
“Well, damn.”  
  
No time to react, no space in which to miss, Sypder plowed broadside into a beer truck hurrying to the next delivery, a Coors Light rain plucking the hood.

“Go, Frodo,” Glorfindel’s shout air bag muffled, “Run.”  
  
All around Ringwraiths closing fast. In his pocket – _Shut up shut up SHUT UP! -_  The Ring singing joy of his demise. Left arm a wood plank inferno impediment, reach across fingers scratched for seat belt freedom.

“Let go, let go, damnit, let -”

Success! Now to open the – open the – open – “Fuck!” Car door jammed.

Close enough to hear the hissing.  
  
“Fuck!” he threw his body against the door. “Oh…god.” The pain rose sick in his mouth.

Skittering across the roof.

“Open – fuck!” Shoulder rammed into the door again. “Open – fuck!” and again “Open – fuck!” and again “Open – FUCK!” and again “Open!” and “Open fuuuuuuuuuuck!”

On the ground, soaked instantly by biting rain.

Right above him, sniffing.  
  
“UP, UP get the fuck UP!” Using his one good arm - _Good arm, my ass! -_  he wrenched overused body into motion, sneakers slipping on the concrete, yet somehow he managed upright. “I’m fucking up!”  
  
All nine followed him now.  
  
Did as directed. He ran.

But, then again, so did everyone else.

“What – What is – What are -”

“Nine-one-one! Call nine-one-one!”

“Bien di!”

“Have you heard the blessed message of -”

“Jesu Christo!”

“Just like the subway!”

“MOMMY!”

Terror on a New York City block scale, people screaming, people cursing, mindless, directionaless except just away, Frodo pinballing through the panic. Feet stomped, stomach elbowed, shoulder shoved – “Fuck1” – energy barrel bottom scraped just to keep from going under.

_“Give up, Frodo Baggins.”_

“Never!”

_“Hope is lost.”_

“Shut up!”

“ _You cannot succeed.”_

“Watch me.”

Wet, every stumble a sloppy squish, lungs death rattled for air, cold, arm long stone, lifeless undergrowth weeding out, body pricked by corruption’s thorns, Frodo damned the mauling people mass, for the delay caused, for the pain inflicted, for the selfish, singular, screw you, buddy shoves and shouts for escape. Yet, as hard fought for freedom broke him into open street, a prayer of thanks whispered – Rivendell promised a sidewalk away, and the Nazgul were a mass hysteria mob away.

“Made it, I made it,” the sheer cliff of the curb conquered, “I actually fucking made -”

A shriek, all nine in chorus, the fury ripped the air, sanity asunder, rending again and again. Frodo went down, knees smarting to asphalt, Morgul wound matching the cry, twisting torture to spent body, and again, victory now assured as the sea of shattered skyscraper glass tinkled down.

_“I was correct. You are weak.”_

OK, score one for The Eye. Flesh was tapped, flat broke, the bravura and contempt patch a temporary fix, guarantee void if pushed, bludgeoned or otherwise hounded to collapse.

_“Lost, you are lost, Frodo Baggins, all is lost.”_

“Shut up! Shut UP!”

_“It is over, Frodo Baggins, over. The Ring is mine. You have failed.”_

Failed? Weak and _FAILED?_ To have come this far, Prancing Pony and Weathertop, subway and Spyder, everything set aside, regular life subsumed, hungry, exhausted, filthy, soaked, bruised, slashed AND skewered, to have dodged all the shit flung to reach this point, Rivendell in spitting distance, only to roll over, accept defeat?

“Blow it out your ass, Sauron.”

_“NO!”_

Up, plucked by will and little else, Frodo shuffled on.

_“The Ring is mine!”_

“Fuck you!”

_“The Ring is MINE!”_

“FUCK YOU!”

First marble step, he slipped, chin knocking a burst of copper in his mouth – _and one more for the list –_ the remaining stairs – _why so goddamn many –_ on sliced hand and knees. Top achieved – _yeah, who’s the failure now –_ an arduous, inelegant, imposing statute lean on feet regain, and he turned, a windy day leaf, drawing the Ring from his pocket.

“This?” He held it high for those Nazgul in the back. “Is this what you want?”

Of one mind, they shrieked. “The Ring! The Ring!”  
  
“Well, too fucking bad. Not happening.” The taunts bubbling bloody. “Now, go back to whatever hell hole you crawled out of!”

_“The Ring is mine!”_  
  
“So sorry, but you shall have neither the Ring nor me!”

_“NO!”_  
  
The rain, bane of Frodo’s existence for the past two days, whipped to a fury, Sandy winds bending poles, snapping power lines, windows blessed to be spared the Nazgul’s voice now faced nature’s temper, sheets of rain tearing apart sheets of glass. Teetering, he watched destruction shove down through the funnel of buildings dragging Hudson Bay surge along the empty street, white billows rampaging down over, smothering and washing away Ferrari, Coors Light, the Nazgul, their frightened and angry shrieks swallowed, street washed clean.

“Bye, bye now.”  
  
The Ring fell silent.  
  
“Oh, god, I’m here, it’s over, finally – uh oh.” The beautiful, white marble of Rivendell steps rose up to meet Frodo’s cheek.


	6. Chapter Six

_…an undying commitment to create a harmony within the world we share. From our headquarters in the west, Valinor, to our subsidiaries in Gondor, Rohan and Eriador, that which we sub-create has provided each life we touch with a sense of belonging, of enrichment, of joy. Though this is an ages old struggle, we at Arda, Inc. find fulfillment in this quest. As stockholders you are…_  
  
The pamphlet fluttered to the carpet, concentration lost. Try as he might, the events of the past four days would not remain settled in his mind, and the pile of paperwork stuffing his inbox paid testament to this uneasiness. _The moment long feared is finally upon us and I sit here proofreading typos._

Sighing heavily, Elrond pushed away from his desk. Seeking to calm troubled thoughts, he watched through 25th floor office windows New York City winking and blinking at his feet. The city was wide awake, and below vehicles filled with the unsuspecting stopped and started their way home. The street still bore the signs of the Ring’s arrival at Rivendell: yellow crime tape fluttered as a bus rolled by, the plywood set in the broken window frames already covered with new advertisements. Actions regretted that day - even of man-made steel and stone, environmental havoc aside, wanton destruction an anathema - nevertheless, the means had swung around to justified ends - the Ring was safely here.  
  
 _And, after all that has been thus far sacrificed, it cannot remain so._

A hand to chilling glass propped the slump of eons bearing shoulders, icy tendrils snuffing out all warmth. _Analogous of the One Ring’s return to Ea, one might say._ But, the deadening would not stop with just one arm, just one being. The non-metaphoric truth - The Ring brought evil in its wake, evil that would soon consume Rivendell, then all quickly succumbing to the lure of its song.  
  
“No!” His reflection a silent partner to anger’s impotent frustration.“It should never have come to this!”

He had been there, had watched the land’s desecration as Sauron had passed through the ranks, death wrought with every step, the Ring blazing domination on his monstrous hand. A shouted warning had fallen on deaf ears –   _foolish, foolish man -_ as Elendil had brought his courage to bear against the Dark Lord. _He failed, and, just like my master, Gil-Galad, the man’s blood seeped into the ash beneath his crumpled body._ Next, a flash of steel, the sounds of the breaking, an anguished cry, then finally a gust of cleansing wind blowing round and out across the corpse strewn field. Inconceivably, Sauron's helm lay empty, his finger severed and inefficacious atop the lifeless robes. Islidur, the grieving son, had accomplished what his father, what others could not. He had defeated the Dark Lord.  
  
The Ring had not been conquered, though - _fleshly vessel destroyed, incarnate evil impenitent -_ it had flooded Islidur’s mind with thoughts of power and domination.  
  
“I tried, by the Valar, I tried!” Elrond choked, smoke and flame memories of Oroduin clogging his lungs, throat unheeded pleas raw. _He would not listen, he would not believe, not me, not the truth, but only the One Ring’s hollow promise._ Islidur had kept the Ring that day, but it did not keep him; it had drifted away, leaving the weak man to be cut down by his enemy.  
  
 _And then…the Silence._

Years crept toward centuries, centuries spun forward millennia, memory, myth, legend, all forgotten by but a few as progress altered landscapes and peoples alike.

Impenetrable, unfathomable, It slept.

The zero, the stylus, the sail, Man's sphere ever widening. Where Peace's message found root, a coin's power grew even deeper, and boundaries were drawn by the will of the sword.

Hidden, unknown, It waited.

Empire begat empire, crown and miter tossed about by greed's spoils, more never enough the wind that delivered extinction to exotic shores and wrought salvation by flash and lead.

Patient, content, It watched.

Revolution! Brother against brother, steam and coal chained the faceless to cog and wheel, riches alone bestowing worth. Humanity across the seas, humanity toward the skies, humanity in the trenches, the world aflame for nothing.

Intrigued, excited, It prepared.

Red conquered white, six million souls disappeared and a mushroom cloud smashed on the horizon. Bitter cold raced through the jungles, to the heavens, divided the desert sands. Walls came down, dime bag sized violence sparked, and disease ravaged society's undesirable. Instantaneous notice demanded by desktop, lap and hand, and an electronic Web wrapped world watched stunned as hatred brought down twin towers.

The Here and Now finally ripe and ready, It resurrected.

_And It chose the creature Gollum._

To his hand by murder, cousin Deagol erased to possess the prize, Gollum was consumed until abandoned by even his own family. Thus, hunted by the law, forsaken by kin, hiding in the shadows and lurking on society's edge, Gollum existed. With mud shows he traveled, yet, even among those freaks and miscreants, he was shunned, the hateful stares of life's dregs condemning him to the dark of The Misty Mountain, his ride and refuge. Gollum had protected the Ring – a birthday present his shrieks told all who dared draw near – kept it secret. It wasn't until a small, jovial man stumbling around in the dark did the Ring return to the light.

_Dearest Bilbo, the most unlikely of heroes._

Always the joking storyteller at each Yuletide party, the Ring had remained safe in his naïve care. But, long slumber had not altered Its purpose, as Elrond recognized the moment of reawakening.

_Slashed to my very core._

The courage of that young man evident in the Ring even reaching Rivendell's front steps; all the promises rebuffed, something that stronger, supposedly wiser men had failed to do. Frodo had suffered greatly in his journey, Elrond empathized, received wounds to both body and spirit that would never heal.

_But, how do I tell him it may have been all for naught?_ He despised the window's reflection. _How do I tell him that yet more may be asked of him?_

Intercom's high buzz drew attention from memory's regrets and the traffic dance below. "Yes, Erestor,” the struggle to steady voice hard fought, "what is it?"

"The heads of R &D and Operations are here to see you, Lord Elrond," his assistant's business decorum on trial over the sounds of petty sniping, "They say it is urgent."

"Of course it is." The Master of Rivendell took his chair, managerial face, recent events and future misgivings around the edges tattered, frowned into place. A morning dealing with incessant squabbling, an emergency stockholders meeting in the afternoon, this evening's party the only bright spot on his day's schedule. _No, nothing bright again until the Ring is gone._ A shout, a curse, the door bang of a thrown chair from the outer office. _Heavy is the head, as my good friend Will once said._ "Erestor, please send in Legolas and Gimli."

  
  
****  
  
  
  
 _Not a floor…or a table…or even better, Strider's ass…_

That thought passed right on by before consciousness realized.

_And speaking of…_ a tentative shrug, stiff and sore, but the burning agony had disappeared. _Thank you._   In its place an ache, dull and wooden. _And the rest of me…'bout the same._ A two sizes too big tongue licked across sandpaper lips. _Ow! What the – oh, yeah, the steps._ AC whirred somewhere and jasmine senses tickled the soft surrounding envelope. Clean, dry, orgasmically comfortable, Frodo opened his eyes.

"Praying hard this isn’t Kansas.”

"It’s Rivendell, my boy!”

"Who's –" squinting made the blobs only slightly less indistinguishable.  "Why, why can't I –"

"At your right hand, Frodo."

Tapping fingers gave Frodo the answer. _Glasses._ Slipped on, the world came back to rights, huge bed, beige walls, old man. "Gandalf! You're here!"

"Excellent observation, Frodo," twinkle one of his best, "How do you feel?"

"Like the starting line of the Daytona Five-Hundred, but I'll live. What time is it?" Body clock check said early evening.

"Let’s see," a pocket watch peek for answer accuracy, "ten o'clock in the morning, September the Twenty-Eighth."

"The twenty – " Shot straight up  – "oh…god," straight collapse down, swimming head and nausea tidal confirming bad idea. "How long have I been -"

"Three nights and four, well, not quite four days." Gandalf moved to somber tones. "That was no ordinary wound you had, Frodo. A piece of the Nazgul morgul blade was lodged within. It took all of Lord Elrond's skill to remove it."

An unconscious touch to left shoulder bandage. "Don't remember anything after…." _There was Glorfindel, I got that, the Ringwraiths, too many goddamn steps and then…and then…what? Dreams, that's what, disturbing dreams, dark, crazy, fucking terrifying dreams, of snarling teeth and misshapen heads, fingers that snatched and scratched, and laughter, always laughing, cruel, mocking, at me, through me, drowning, going under, changing, becoming, surrounded, buried, all but lost if not for the touch of –_

"Sam!" Panic tasted acid fear. "Where's _Sam_? Is he here, in Rivendell? Is he alright?"

"Calm yourself, Frodo. Mister Gamgee is quite fine, I assure you. I sent him away not half an hour ago to get some rest. He stayed by your side the entire time you were unconscious. Refused to leave even for meals."

"OK, good, great." Agitation soothed by obscenely fluffy pillows. _Greatest would be him here, but -_ "Sam is safe," – _and that's what matters._ Priority first satisfied, the next one on the list began toddler tantrum screaming. _Like a twelved-dicked weasel._ Sitting up waters tested, and Frodo was pleased to hear no objections from the head and stomach peanut gallery. Feet swung over bed's edge, "Damn," he was, however, less than amused to see them not touch the floor.

Gandalf stood up. "Frodo, what are doing?"

"I've been out for three days, where do you _think_ I'm going?"

Instant understanding. "Oh, yes, well, allow me to assist you."

The 'bugger off, old man' independence or tumble to mossy squishy carpet pop quiz quickly bubbled in.  "Yeah, OK," and Frodo weak knees shuffled to the bathroom at Gandalf's side. "So, where were you? Why didn't you meet me at the Prancing Pony?"

"Well, you see," obfuscation guided Frodo across the room, "I was…delayed."

_Shit, even Gandalf had trouble._ "You know, you could have at least told me about those Nazgul." Frodo's voice deepened by the bathroom tile. "Think nine walking dead sent to kill me would fall under the Need to Know category."

"I had hoped to see you safely to Rivendell before they were alerted. Seems I miscalculated."

Toilet flushed and a much more comfortable Frodo emerged. "Yeah, I would say so, old man." Help back to bed waved off.

"But, you did arrive, Frodo."

"And you can thank Strider for that. Without his help I’d still be on the floor of the Prancing Pony.” Softness welcomed back the weary traveler. “Or worse.”  
  
“So I’ve heard. You should not have put it on.”  
  
“How did you -”  
  
“I’ve spoken to Sam. We’ve had many conversations across this bed, watching you sleep, listening to you talk.”  
  
“I do not talk in my sleep!” Steaming protest a lousy embarrassment cover. “Besides, you should have told me from the very beginning. Thar thing should come with an owner’s manual.”  
  
“I don’t believe the owner intended for anyone else to have it, Frodo.”

“Point Gandalf.” Corrective lensed eyes wandered the much anticipated, almost never happened sanctuary. _So, this is Rivendell. Dudes here have got a serious thing for trees._ On the duvet, on the curtains, across the walls, embroidered on the furniture, leaves. Muted, bold silhouette or relief, leaves. Green, brown, scarlet and gold _,_ leaves _. Even on the freaking bathroom towels._ And each corner grew upwards, willowy tall, branches reaching out across the ceiling to clasp a leafy canopy above. Serene, idyllic, autumnal – _and kinda’ creepy -_ Frodo forest convalesced. “So, tell me, those Ringwraiths, all that Strider said about them is true?”

“Yes, Frodo, every word.”  
  
“But they’re gone now. I saw them get washed away.”  
  
“No, those that are not living cannot die. We have not seen the last of the Nazgul, I’m afraid.”  
  
 _Oh, that’s comforting._ “The wind, the water, what caused that? I mean, that was Weather Channel Storm Stories freaky.”  
  
“I believe that is something you must take up with your host. And that reminds me,” an expertly executed side step, “Lord Elrond is planning a celebration this evening in your honor.”

“Rather have cab fare home.”

“There is a meeting this afternoon, emergency and all hush-hush, and your attendance is expected there, as well.”

“Me?” Incredulous blue saucers framed by hipster black. “Why would they want -”

“And a discussion between us is imperative, Frodo, for there are many things you should know before -”  
  
Third on the list growled for attention.

“However, baser needs must be attended to first, I suppose.” The laugh snort was less than charming. “Do you think you could handle a little something to eat, my boy?”

Empty stomach scoffed at the insipid question. “Several little somethings.”  
  
Sustenance wish granted immediately, a tray juggled through the door.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
“Goddamn!” The food heavy tray hand-off to Gandalf quick, the bed launch even quicker. “Oh, my god, Frodo!” Hands fluttered, overwhelmed, under focused, wanting to touch all at once. The bed hair, the nerdy glasses, the gap toothed smile – “Frodo!” -  the swollen lip, the painfully thin face, the bruised circles around his eyes, everything needing his care, his care needing everything.  Which first decision Gordian knotty, so he just glomped it all. “You’re really, fucking _finally_ awake!”

“Of course, I am, Sam, what -”

“Scared, when you left, so fucking scared that you – you would -” Sam swallowed fear’s sob, “and then they wouldn’t let me see you, so I had to go banging on doors until I found – so still, so quiet, like you were already –” hug squeezed tighter.

Caught in Sam embrace cocoon, even with that broad shoulder poking into injured one, Frodo didn’t mind one bit. _Feels too fucking good._ “Oh, Sam.”

“And the one time, out of four days’ worth of watching and waiting, the one fucking time I walk away from here, under protest I might add, that’s when you wake up.” Beloved face hand cradled, Sam brought foreheads together. “Oh, Frodo, don’t you ever, fucking _ever_ -”

  _God, how I love this man!_ “I promise, Sam.”

Someone cleared a throat. Loudly.  
  
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Wiping joy’s tears, Sam jumped up and retrieved the tray from Gandalf’s hands, to set it carefully across Frodo’s lap. “Here, eat. I brought all of your favorites.”  
  
A bowl of cereal, a wild berry Pop Tart, a cinnamon-raisin bagel with an equal amount of cream cheese on both sides, chocolate milk, and a tall glass of white grape juice. A little kid grin. “This will do for starters.”  
  
“I have something else for you, too, Frodo.” A Sam/Gandalf shared mischievous eyebrow wag.  
  
Frodo stopped chewing. “What?”  
  
Near to bursting, Sam flourished open the door. “Ta da!”

“Hello, Frodo.”

Corn Pops duvet splattered. “Uncle Bilbo?”

_How long, a week?_ In only seven days, Bilbo had grown old. Not really old, old – _not Gandalf_ _old_ \- but as Frodo slowly set aside his breakfast, pulled back the covers and padded over, he could see the broad strokes of silver’s brush in Bilbo’s hair, eye crinkles that laughed deeper, and gravity’s triumph sagging jaw line. Sixty-two, yes, but Bilbo had always looked (and acted) half that – _and now? –_ Stooped and shuffling, Uncle Bilbo was worn, used, stretched and rubbed thin, as if the years taken greater than the sum divinely bestowed. _Yeah, he’s suddenly old, but not too old for this._  
  
Bilbo’s head snapped back when Frodo’s right fist connected with that sagging jaw.

“That’s for the lies!” Betrayal’s hurt erupted molten. “That’s for leaving without telling me!”  
  
“Frodo!” Horrified, Sam rushed to former employer’s side. “Well, I’m glad to see you, Bilbo.” The harshest Frodo frown he had ever thrown. “Even if others are not."

Attention waved away, busted lip blood swiped with knobby jointed hand. “Guess I had that coming.”

Bruised knuckles balled for another strike. “That, and a whole lot more, you bastard!”

“A whole lot more, huh? Well, I’ve got a whole lot more for you, too. Like Bag End, the apartment, everything I own, it’s all yours now, Frodo.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Uncle Bilbo, for that everything you’ve given me!” Sarcasm snarled smile sweet. “It’s been a fucking blast so far that _everything_ has!”

“Yes, I gave it to you, and, my dearest Frodo, that is MY burden to bear.”

Ten paces apart, with righteous indignation as seconds, Baggins squared to Baggins.

“Samwise,” a timely Gandalf interjection, “there are a few things I must discuss with you.”

Front row spectator turned a “What, now?’ with a side of “Don’t call me that!” expression on the battles of wills interruption. “Discuss, with me? _Really_?”

A firm shoulder touch. “Yes, really, and in private.”

“But, I just got here and -”

"A conundrum that can only be solved with your expertise," handful of Sam collar dragged to and out the room's door, "don't forget your obligations tonight, you two!”

Brittle silence, passing seconds trapped in tension amber, forgiveness tainted by memory’s poison.

“Why, Bilbo, why?”

“No time.”

“No time? Text, email, chicken scratched note on the back of last month’s utility bill – ‘Milk, bread, Hot pockets, I’m leaving forever. Love, Uncle B’ – requires hours of thoughtful contemplation?”

“Well, Gandalf was insist -”

“Don’t you fucking lay this on him!”

“Then what  -”

“The party, the speech, all decided ahead. Only your trick exit kept you from getting away from me clean.”

“Is that, that’s what you, I wanted to get away from, Oh, Frodo!” Revelation surged forward, arms open to comfort. “Me, all about me, and my restlessness for adventure, that’s all. I had to -”

“NO!” Frodo shoved explanation away. “The only thing you **_had_** to do was trust me, believe in me enough to tell me the fucking truth!”

“OK, I understand, not telling you, not confiding in you, was selfish and stupid.”

“You expect absolution now, I suppose.”

“What I don’t understand is the anger.” Bilbo wrestled to contain some of his own. “So, I left, walked out, but not very far, ‘cause you found me, I’m right here in Rivendell.”

“ _And I shouldn’t be!”_

“You’re right, Frodo. But, the power to rectify that wrong lies beyond me.” Ammunition spent, Bilbo crossed into opposing territory. "You obviously want to hit me again, so…" he presented a passive jawline target, "all I ask, though, is the right side this time. Would really like a matching set to show off at the party tonight."

Fist cocked and ready and - _need, want, must – Uncle Bilbo?_ Right - _he's right, goddamnit_ – fault lay not with him – _well, maybe just a little_ – the fear and pain, helplessness and humiliation, the monumental injustice of his life interrupted, the FUBARness of it all stained another – _nine others to be exact –_ and a crippling blow had already landed spot on directional when he did on Rivendell's stoop – _my first and only Sauron sucker punch._ Muscles relaxed, fingers uncurled, anger's coil spronged loose. _Wrong place, right time, for both of us._ "No, not again. Hurts too damn much." Borrowed strength followed close behind, recovering patient Frodo sinking drained to bed's edge. "All this time, and you had no idea?"

Fist flying fortifying breath gratefully expelled. "Knew about the invisible stuff, of course, how do you think I caught all those shoplifters?" Fingers explored still oozing split lip. "Wasn't until the party, after my grand departure, that Gandalf told me the rest."

“Then Gandalf knew?” Pop Tart absently nibbled, “He knew and didn’t tell you?”  
  
“He had an inkling, I guess. The lighter trick truly convinced him.”  
  
 _The lighter trick, old man used the same thing on me_. He had stood there, in the living room aghast as the strange markings appeared as the butane flame licked gold. _Black writing, black words, Black speech._  
  
“Knew for sure that the Ring was the One, that it was dangerous, and that it was not for me to protect anymore.”  
  
Evoked at last, It joined the conversation – _Hanging around my neck this whole time. Funny I didn’t notice before –_ humming warmth and weight against his skin. “Why didn’t Gandalf take it, then?”  
  
“I tried, Frodo, believe me, I tried! He wouldn’t take it. Kept saying, ‘Don’t tempt me!’ Practically climbed the walls of Bag End trying to get away." Bilbo reached over to sneak a bite of bagel. “Anyway, he suggested I leave it to you, that somehow the Ring was meant to be yours.”  
  
“Lucky me.” Tucked cozy beneath his T-shirt, It agreed.

“Then I closed up the shop, grabbed a cab, came here, taking Elrond up on his standing invitation to visit, and that’s the end of my part in this story. Unless…” Bilbo stared at his nephew a moment. “Unless…” A long, awkward, neck prickling, hair end standing, moment. "You have it, don't you, Frodo, you have The Ring."

If the slight voice crack wasn’t a big fat tell, then the hand slapped to shirt front was. "Now, why would I -"

"You _do_ have it, The Ring, I know, I can feel -" fingers insect worried duvet, "Just a peek, that's all, all I want, old time's sake, just a peek."

Now all the ingredients for a major freak out were there in his uncle’s eyes. “Actually kinda’ tired right now, so, if you don’t mind, Bilbo -”

Only it wasn’t - “The Ring, I want to see The Ring, show me the Ring!” - that sniveling thing scratching against the sheets, crawling up the bed - “The Ring, I want the Ring!” Not anymore, at least.

Words failed, refused to form, coherent thought stuck on horror as the just a second ago Bilbo thing slobbered closer – _that’s – that’s not – not –_ fight reflex taking charge by building breakfast tray barricade while flight, pulling knees up tight, scrambled back to headboard safety – _not – can’t – no!_

“Let me see it, let me hold it, let me…”

Grape juice and Corn Pops splatted pillows, sheets, splotched drips down glasses, the leaf embossed china smash swatted aside, unctuous slimy pawing at Frodo’s legs. _Not hap – happen – not happening -_

“… _touch_ it…the Treasure.”

Rheumy bloodshot blinked, feted hot hissed, one thieving gnarled twig snatched out to possess.

“It’s mine!”

Denied, Frodo’s body curling smaller, denied, Frodo’s hand curling tighter. _No – not – not yours – it’s -_

A frenzy, snarl and gnash, pound and pummel, attack beating down, assault mounting atop, nails slashing flesh beady red, fingers straining to reach, to encircle, to stop breathe and life.

“It’s mmmmmmine!”

Smothered, trapped, unable to move, unable to defend - _stopjustpleasestop -_ desperation lashed out visceral, vicious -“Uncle Bilbo!”

Gone.

“What -” Bilbo looked at his hands, reaching for his nephew’s throat. “What have -” Bilbo looked at his body, crushing his nephew underneath. “What have I -” Bilbo looked at his nephew’s face, unerring trust now supplanted by eroding doubt, his own weakness consequences all. “My god, what have I done?”

“It’s OK, Bilbo,” Frodo coughed out assurances neither he, nor his soul, recognized, “I’m OK. You just -”

“I just what, Frodo? Just tried to take from you, just tried to kill -” Self-loathing shoved him from the bed, “Frodo, Frodo, what can I, didn’t mean, didn’t know, what I -” anguished sobs dropped him to the floor, “Sorry, so sorry, so sorry.”

Frodo went to him. “It’s alright.” Precognitive pity climbed stiff from the bed to gather the weeping man in his arms. _Nazgul, broken sword guy, even Bilbo. Ring, The Ring, THIS Ring, caught, corrupted them all._ “Everything’s alright now.”

“No, Frodo, it’s not,” he clung and rocked his shame slow, “I wish, wish, wish this had never come to you.

“Me, too, Uncle Bilbo.” Around Frodo’s neck – _me, too? -_ The Ring heavier than ever before.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter Seven

The Ring in New York

Chapter Seven

 

 

 

Arda, Inc.

“We Are The World To You.”

 

Cordially Extends an Invitation to a

Cocktail Reception Honouring

Mister Bilbo Baggins

And

Mister Frodo Baggins

Eight O’clock

Twenty-Eighth of September, Two Thousand and Thirteen

Homely House Room

Rivendell

New York, New York

 

 

Sam ran his finger over the raised letters of the fanciest schmaniest invitation he had ever received. _My usually invite – a shout up from the street corner._ Gold trimmed on heavy latte foam colored paper, the leafy, swirly loops of one name in particular claimed his caressing attention. _And fancy it should be, all the crap just to get here. And after a little schmoozing tonight, tomorrow it’s back –_ giggles rose above the hoity toity harp music, and Sam’s heart tripped over its own beats.

There by the snooty champagne fountain, the musical mirth a reaction to Bilbo’s whispered remark.

_No more punching, I see._

Not that anything so untoward would happen, not tonight, not here, here is this place of towering trees, verdant boughs sheltering delicate fancies of wood and stone, gazebos, pergolas, dream wisps enchanted by ivy’s kiss, the bandstand, the bar, latticed whims where even willow sighed content, buffet table to the left, at peace with its evergreen companions, rest rooms just over the footbridge and right of the mediating lotus blossoms, here where breeze gentled warm and Nature’s canopy answered with starlight winks, here where a book store clerk stood irrelevant.

_Could not be more out of place if I burped the alphabet._

With a horse thief waiting trap door swing empathizing tug on possessed not a clue on how to wear properly without some assistance tux collar, Sam chewed on a mild bit of envy. _Even those idiots fit in._ Simply by pulling on a clean pressed suit, Pippin had transformed from low rent law student to erudite socialite and was now folksying up the bar crowd with one of his down home country boy tales. And there was Merry – messy hair and three-day stubble, rings and studded leather replaced by a shave and white dinner jacket – drink in hand, interested indifference in place, holding a debutante gaggle enthralled. Of course, accustomed by monied lives as they were, regular day wear behavior aside, Merry and Pippin’s seamless high society integration was utterly, but no less irritatingly, appropriate.

_And me blending in? More like Bed Stuy potholes._

Not talking about shame here, no, Brooklyn and blue collar hung accepted on closet’s second peg. But, even though too far away for small talk verbatim, dollars and doughnuts both placed even money that they weren’t talking about crazy relatives, what’s for supper, the Yankees or rent being too damn high – Sam’s normal conversational topics – neither. No, he didn’t think Nathan’s dogs, the Stanley Cup or Uncle Sy’s kidney stones would interest the sparkly, floaty crowd with impeccably tailored grace and strung with pearls poise of beautiful people with beautiful smiles chatting about beautiful anecdotes from their beautiful lives.

_Except one._

Who was at this moment stealthily swiping caviar off a miniature piece of toast.

Beautiful, yes, ethereal, angelic even, all good descriptors, Frodo blessed with those physical attributes that caused the most apathetic of humans to go weak-kneed. Not just the shape of his face, though, or the gentle slope of his neck, the flawless cheek bones or unruly dark hair – _And those goddamn eyes! –_ of which tomes heavy with import and simile could be Sam authored, not that mere mundane words were capable of capturing the true essence of such pristine pure blue – had first bewitched and ensnared, but a subtext of innocence, irreverence and inquisitiveness, wit, compassion, naiveté, despair and will’s infinity double helixed, all and everything snapped tight in intellect’s steel jaws.

_Frodo – perfection._

That’s what Sam beheld when he watched, which was quite often if truth started into gossiping – dinner, laundry, Netflix, studying, texting, tooth brushing - like now, him by the coat check standing vigilant guard over an out-of-Rivendell ordinary non-descript wall section while watching subject - and soul’s far back corner domination desire – gestured expansive, crystal flute an unwitting prop in amusing story punchline.

_Good. He needs this, deserves this, to relax, spend time with Bilbo, to put the fucking nightmare behind and –_

Laughter lilted, and a fist clenched in Sam’s gut.

_Oh, shit. What now?_

Pressed into time wasting work for most of the afternoon – _expert advice, my ass! –_ and freed only when his swan pile outswam the unfolded napkin ducklings, Sam had immediately returned upstairs to Frodo, of course. The room lay dark, though, no Frodo, no Bilbo, not even housekeeping, just empty. A bit off-putting to say the least, especially in the absence of a ‘Here’s my current location. Please come to me, my love, my Sam,’ note that certainly would have been pillow pinned and signed with copious amounts of hugs and kisses had Sam’s fantasies been concierge here. Since 24/7 bedside vigil by had followed their at the hip connected trek to, now to be standing apart from Frodo’s Rivendell loop stung tongue bite deep. Admittedly, he was awake now, back to health, probably off speaking with Gandalf, thanking Elrond, exploring this amazingly wonderful place without any need to be chaperoned or soccer mommed by Sam or anyone else. For the rest of the day spent alone despite everywhere asking and searching, however, and all through shower and shave, Pippin’s endless stream of chatty nothing while Merry schooled on proper cummerbund fold direction and bow tieing in five easy steps, even during the elevator journey down and as party awkward dreamt of a jeans and t-shirt escape the question of why, why Rivendell, the haven from all tribulations, had seemingly swallowed Frodo whole without a burp became the poppy seed his father’s ‘Nobody wants borrowed trouble back, Sam,’ admonition couldn’t pick out.

_Seems I was right._

The giggle flat, atonal, under satin lapel trimmed wool, slender shoulders stood stiff, though smiling sincere, teeth clicked thumbnail, and when Frodo glanced Sam’s way –

_Fuck, right there in his eyes. He’s worried, he’s scared. He’s not safe here anymore._

“Why don’t you just go talk to him?”

Sam recognized the accent. “No, I’d be in the way, Pip. He’s having a good time with Bilbo.”

“Well, by my latest count,” vodka martini never strayed far from sipping range, “Frodo’s glanced over here at you forty-seven times in the last hour. Now, I’m no expert, mind you,” which really meant he was, “but, I believe that’s a clear indication that he would like to be with you, Sam.”

Body nearly resonated with the need to be by Frodo’s side, a true miracle he wasn’t calling in the neighborhood dogs. _Ask him what’s wrong, what happened, what the fuck has him so freaked?_ Still the fancy pants river flowed, if not swiftly then with elegant manners and haute lousy with couture taste, and he and Frodo stood on opposite shores, Sam not willing to brave the current. “No, think I’ll just have another beer.”

“Suit yourself Sam,” Pip back to the mingling, “but, in the short time we’ve been talking, that number has increased to fifty-two.”

At the bar Sam ordered another Molson’s and found a brooding corner this time. _Is it Bilbo, their fight? No, all’s fine now between them it seems. His health, then? Bilbo is looking just this side of ancient, which is fucking weird ‘cause at his b’day party, before he left, before he gave Frodo the –_

“Sixty-three.” Merry sat down beside Sam, his drink’s little pink umbrella rum licked clean. “Sixty-three times now Frodo’s glanced your way, Sam.”

“You’ve been talking to Pippin?”

Genuine surprise. “He’s been counting, too?”

Shy on personal matters Sam turned into sour on matters personal discussed by others Sam. “Is that all youse guys have time to do?”

Lounging back in the chair, Merry’s legs stuck out in his best ‘No fucks given here’ position. “Not much else to do. This party sucks.”

“Well, it sure looked like you were having a good time. What about those fluffy girls? Falling all over you!”

“Fucking parasites.” The sneer dismissive. “Found out my last name and suddenly every word out of my mouth was fascinating.” A long swallow inviting in burning, sweet forgetfulness. “Consider yourself lucky, Sam Gamgee.”

“Lucky? Oh, yeah, living paycheck to paycheck has been a real blast, let me tell you.”

“With money, you never know if somebody wants you for you, or just for what you can buy for them.”

“Yeah, but without money, nobody’s gonna’ look at you in the first place.”

“Well, I know somebody who’s looking at you, Sam.” A Pip appearance on the right. “We’re closing in on a hundred now.”

“Shut up, Pip.”

“Ignore Mr. Grumpy pants. So, what did you find out?”

“Well,” and the two friends leaned over Sam, “That beautiful brunette, the one with the doe eyes? She’s Strider’s fiancée.”

“No.” Merry’s blasé piqued interest grazed the herd. “Really?”

“Yes, but daddy Elrond is none too thrilled. Seems to think that Strider has not lived up to his potential.”

“Like I haven’t heard that a million times before.”

“And those two guys over there by the ice sculpture, the one eating brie with a fork, Legolas Greenleaf, head of R and D.”

Engaged in the more lofty pursuit of Frodo watching – _What’s wrong, what’s the trouble, what can I do to – damn, even sneezing, he’s perfect –_ a fraction with a bottom heavy denominator gave an ear to the bookend prattle. “R and D?”

“Research and Development.” Merry’s breadcrumbs tossed out quickly. “Yeah, Legolas, what else?”

“The short dude, the one with the ZZ Top beard? That’s Gimli O’Gloin.”

“What the hell kind of name is Gimli?”

“How should I know? Probably just short for something.”

“Yeah, like Gimli all your money.”

“Gimli your tired and poor.”

“Gimli that old time rock and roll.”

“Gimli -”

“A fucking break!” Sam not feeling the puns tonight. “How is _any_ of this important?”

“Never rush a fine soufflé, Sam.” Pippin gathered more ingredients. “Anyway, Mr. give it to me hard and fast -” ale shot out Sam’s nose, “and Legolas absolutely hate each other. Can’t stand the sight and all that.”

“So?”

“Well,” Pip leaned in closer, “it would appear there’s some huge project in the works and they’ll be forced to work together. _Closely._ ” Innuendo quotes with that last word.

“And…?” Piqued interest becoming severely strained.

“Gandalf, Strider, and that really big dude over there hogging all the hors d’oeuvres will be involved, too.” The man obviously felt eyes on him for he turned and stared back at the three clustered friends. Pip waved, “Hey!”, and the greeting was almost returned, but checked mid-flight. He glowered at them instead. “Names Boromir. Comes from the DC area. Daddy’s a little crazy, so Mr. Steward there is really running the show, with a little help from his book nerdy brother.”

“You guys are unbelievable.” Sam ordered another Molson’s, his third past Frodo talking to the Mayor Bloombergs. “Like a bunch of silly high school girls on Facebook.”

“We prefer Tumblr.”

“And Twitter.”

“Un _fucking_ believable!”

“OK,” Merry steered the conversation back into oncoming gossip, “We’ve got uptight dad, feuding suits, dude with family issues and a project. And this is relevant to me how?”

Voice lowered and the boom followed. “Because that very same project, our mutual friend’s name has been attached to it, also.”

The interest piqued now was Sam's. "Frodo? What has he got to do with any of this?"

"Don't know the whole story, but," which really meant he did, "because of that project, our dear Frodo will most likely be taking a little trip."

"A trip?" _Frodo leaving?_ "To where?"

"Someplace called Mordor."

"Mordor?" _Frodo's leaving!_ "Where the hell is that?"

"Southeast of here, I think they said. When he's leaving, I can only speculate in the next day or two."

Hollow, brittle, the room's sounds far away. _Frodo leaving? Was that what I saw in his eyes?_ "Why? He did what Gandalf asked, he got The Ring to Rivendell. That should be enough."

"More than enough in my opinion." Merry felt the need to share.

"There may be more than just dropping it off, Sam," a Pippin pointed reminder, "Strider did say something about its destruction."

 _More? He nearly died getting here and they're asking him to give more?_ "But, why Frodo?" 

"Maybe he didn't have a choice, Sam."

A sickened swallow aftertasted with beer and bile. "No choice?"

"The Ring is his, after all."

"Bullshit!" That drew some stares. "Send Strider, send Gandalf, let them get chased, stabbed and whatever. Hell, send Elrond even, and just leave Frodo out of it."

"Oh, he won't be going."

"And you know this how?"

"It's all been decided apparently, Strider, Gandalf, of course, and that aforementioned motley crew, along with Frodo, are to be the ONLY authorized members Sam, you don't look so good."

Couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, head embalmed in beer buzz, heart encased in fear. Immobile, trembling, Sam left to bang impotently on the door ONLY had slammed shut.

_Frodo leaving? Frodo leaving! Without me?_

"Sam? Are you alright? Sam, can you hear – Merry, something's wrong with Sam."

"There's a six-pack of wrong with Sam." Help offered through an elbow tug. "Come on, let's sit down for a minute, Sam."

The squeal of the sound system, a whisper, a nothing. _Frodo leaving without me? To where? To Mordor? To worse shit than getting here? Frodo leaving without me? Why? The Ring, that goddamned Ring!_

"Sam, just sit here, breathe, chill, OK? Just sit. You had to tell him that way, huh, Pip? Couldn't have done it gentler?"

"My way probably a damn sight gentler than hearing the bad news from him."

"Ladies and gentlemen, Friends of Arda, as Chairman of the Board, allow me to welcome you this evening to Rivendell."

 _Him._ Smooth and style and sophistication, Elrond addressed the glittering white tie crowd. _Him and all the rest of fucking Rivendell, tried to keep me from Frodo and now they’re trying to take him away._

"We are gathered here to honor two gentlemen who have done a great service, not only for Arda, but for all."

_Not enough, though, is it? Almost dying not enough for youse?_

"Eyes dilated, face flushed, sweating buckets, this is not good, Merry."

"They are pitiful substitutes for the true extent of your worth, but I extend them to you anyway with a humble heart. Thank you, Bilbo Baggins and Frodo Baggins."

_Frodo leaving? Leaving with strangers? An old man? Prissy research guy? Gimli O’Crazy beard?_

"OK, Sam," beer bottle sloshed over as Merry pried apart white knuckling fist, "cutting you off."

"These gentlemen have given us a fighting chance to face these uncertain times ahead.”

_Frodo leaving, leaving…without me?_

"Coffee, grab some coffee, Pip. Sam NEEDS coffee."

"A cold shower might help, too."

_Leaving without me? No explanation, no goodbyes? Leaving without me?_

"A toast, a toast to our heroes!"

_I love you! God, I love you, and you're leaving without –_

"To Bilbo and Frodo, may your blessing outnumber the -"

"NO!"

Diamonds turned, Tahiti fed tans turned, mover, shakers and money trading takers turned, three branches of New York government turned. Add in musicians, wait staff and the paparazzi parasites outside plastered to the windows, the whole room turned to look –

"NO!"

\- at the tipsy, listing and ragged breathing, turned to look at the stumble bumble into the charmed circle, turned to stare at the irrelevant book store clerk.

“I said NO!”

"Here is another we should thank for going above and beyond." Elrond's review of the evening’s flash Sam entertainment a quadruple fold frown. "Mr. Sam Gamgee."

The applause perfunctory, the recipient not having any of it.

"Not without me!”

"And here are two others to thank," this frown’s daggers doubled edged, one of thanks for their either side of Sam attention, the other – much sharper by far – for allowing hand to lose situation’s grip in the first place. "Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took."

"Meriadoc?” Incredulity swung hazy lazy between. "Peregrin?"

"You want to discuss family tradition now," Merry, and Pippin, acknowledged the applause smattering with simple nods, "Sam _wise_?"

“No, want to talk to Frodo. Frodo! Hey, _Frodo_!” Wouldn’t quite call it a glance this time, coming from the tonight’s Very Important Persons dais, more like a bona fide blue death threat. “I’m coming with you!”

“Believe you’ve said enough for the evening, Sam. Come on.”

Elrond was speaking –

“Ladies and gentlemen, many of you have been delighted by the whimsical tales told by one of our honorees tonight. Perhaps -”

Bilbo was reciting –

“Earendil was a mariner that tarried in Arvermein. He built a boat -”

And Frodo was shrinking –

“Wait – wait – let go - what – where are – wrong – stop – going wrong direction –”

Frodo was disappearing –

“Need to talk to him – stop - need to tell him – need to -”

“Apologize for showing your ass out there, I’m thinking. Pip, get that, would you?”

Frodo was gone, Pippin held the door, Merry turned the knob, and with curses corrosive enough to strip paint, sobriety flushed frozen over Sam’s head.

“Proud of yourself now?” The angry accusation echoed off the Men’s room walls, and was door slam punctuated. “What the _fuck_ was _that_?”

Merry relinquished his under the spigot’s flow hold. “Just a little too much to drink, that’s all, Frodo.”

One degree from ice cubes water dripped stings into Sam’s eyes, eyes not worthy to mirror meet with Frodo’s. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? That’s it? _Sorry_?” Apparently not in a forgive/forget mood. “And that makes it all better?”

“Gets props for sincerity, at least.” Pippin’s current Sam situational sympathy came in the form of a handful of paper towels.

“This was a special night, you know. I didn’t give a rat’s ass, but it meant something to Bilbo and now you’ve tarnished it.”

Past experience instinct warned of dire consequences should the one word vocabulary make a return appearance, so self-preservation abandoned conversation attempts, and instead concentrated on the hand twisting wad of paper towels.

“What did you hope to accomplish with that display?”

Ah, but here was a subject, THE subject on which he could speak with authority. “To go with you, that’s all.”

“Go with me? Go with me where?”

“To Mordor. Didn’t want you to leave me behind.”

Frodo paled. “Where did you hear that?”

“Uhm…” Sam’s non-poker face an equal opportunity finger pointer, both bookends implicated by a sideways glance, “at the party.”

“And that’s our cue, Pip.” Merry rushed duel gossip complicity out the door. “Later, dudes.”

“You made a fool of yourself, embarrassed Bilbo, Gandalf, _me_ _,_ in front all those people because of what Merry and Pip said?” Frodo’s incredulity leaned heavily on the multi sinked counter. “Because of what they overheard? Because of fucking hearsay?”

“So, it’s not true, then, you’re not leaving, going to Mordor?”

“Well, I…” It was Frodo’s eyes this time unable to make the meeting.

He hadn’t left yet, walked out of Rivendell, there was still time, time to correct any mistakes, right wrongs and all that, and Sam was an experienced problem fixer, so… “Look, if they’re trying to force you to take the damn Ring to Mordor, just tell them to -”

“Force me?” Could actually see the raised hackle’s reflection in the mirror. “What makes you think anyone was forcing me?”

“Why else would you even think about taking up the Ring again? If they told you -”

“Not a fucking child. Nobody _told_ me to do anything.”

“I know you’re not a child, Frodo, but why else would you be going to -” Sam’s stomach dropped to his knees, “don’t tell me you volunteered?”

“I did. I said I would take the Ring to Mt. Doom to be destroyed.”

“Why in the –” and then finished free falling with a spectacular floor splat, “why would you do something so fucking stupid?”

“You calling me stupid?”

“No, just some of your decisions.”

“You didn’t hear them, the stockholders, you don’t know, you weren’t there!”

The point of his never sent invitation to a previously unknown meeting strongly made by just an eyebrow lift. “And…?”

“They couldn’t agree on anything, Sam, just kept going round and round, shouting at each other. It was a nightmare.”

“And…?”

“Elrond was adamant about the Ring’s destruction, Boromir insisted It should go to him and his family, Gimli didn’t trust Legolas, Legolas insulted Gimli, Gandalf wanted to tell stories, and Aragorn -”

The recently acquired names he ticked off one by - “Aragorn?” That was a new one.

“Strider. Aragorn’s his real name.”

“Strider is Aragorn?”

“Right, and true heir to the CEO seat of Gondor. OK?”

Clear as mud. “ _And_ …?”

“They were yelling and fighting about the same insipid things, over and over. No listening, no compromising, just anger and prejudice and,” the bathroom too small for the distance of Frodo’s agitation, it paced from sinks to urinal wall again and again, “no one even noticed in the middle of table The Ring was - at us, at everything, no one else could hear the goddamn thing laughing!” Hands covered ears, the memories assaulting still. “The flames will burn everything, Sam. I witnessed, Sauron showed me. Death and domination. Rivendell, New York, everything, everyone. All He needs to succeed, sitting right there, and they were talking, arguing, doing –” He stopped, decision’s gravity sliding him to the wet puddled floor. “I had to, Sam, no other way, I have to destroy The Ring!”

“And that means Mordor.” So, Frodo hadn’t been coerced, guilted into taking up The Ring again, the choice his alone. Comforting to know, of course, but, while requiring construction to add yet another chamber to his already brimming with Frodo heart, that knowledge did nothing to alter Sam’s go with conviction. “And where is that exactly?”

“Not a fucking clue.”

“Well, we better find one, ‘cause getting lost some -”

“No.” Frodo’s prohibition whispered to his lap.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Going with you.”

“I said no!” A slip up the tiled walls, Frodo’s stubbornness primed for confrontation. “Knew you’d do this, knew you’d act this way, that’s why I didn’t tell you, about the meeting, about Mordor.”

“Now who’s treating who like a child?”

“There are more qualified people set to accompany me, I don’t need you -”

“Bullshit! No one, fucking NO ONE is better at -”

“You can’t go, Sam, that’s final!”

The perfect exit line utterly ruined by Sam’s hand slapping the door back shut. “You’ve made your decision and I’ve made mine!”

“NO!”

“Why, Frodo,” a toss-up as to which shouted the loudest – anger, frustration, confusion, hurt, betrayal – “why don’t you want me -”

“I love you, goddmanit!” A snarl, an angry, bitter, aching, lonely, tear desperate cry. “I love you and the idea of you back in Brooklyn, running Bag End, gardening, happily married even with a dozen screaming brats at your feet, a beer in one hand and the remote in the other, even that, as long as you’re safe behind the bricks of that brownstone, safe and alive. That’s why I'm going to Mordor, Sam, and you’re not. Because I love you.”

The kiss was intense, erotic and over way too soon.

“Goodbye, Sam.” Frodo slipped out of the door and Sam’s life.

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

 

 

“Goodbye, Sam.”

Frodo, through the door, his heart remained on the other side.

_Out. Away. Alone!_

Forced to muck back through the heroes’ party he hadn’t desired, didn’t deserve, Frodo did not pause to answer admirers’ calls-

“Mr. Baggins, I would like to -”

“Well done, Fro -”

\- stop to applaud his uncle’s flourished finish –

“To bear his shining lamp afar, the Flammifer of Westernesse!”

\- or even offer more than cursory notice to longtime friends –

“So, _is_ Sam going to Mordor?”

“No, Merry!”

\- the heels of his frantic pace to escape chomped on by the swifter despair.

_Alone. That’s what I’ll be, that’s what I am. Without Sam, I’m alone!_

He had to find a hole to crawl in, a hiding place, big enough for his sorrow to fill, small enough to hide self-worth, deep enough where the wounds that would never heal festering could begin.

_Why can’t you see, why didn’t you understand? I must do this, Sam, I must leave you behind!_

Nine floors of lush ethereal Rivendell beauty completely ignored on the elevator ride up, the hurt and anger bare knuckled brawl pricking Frodo’s eyes with tears.

_Think I enjoyed that, telling you no, think I’m happy now? Dumbfuck, I need you, want you, LOVE you, and that’s why I said goodbye!_

Hallway became suite dark with a key card swish, begged for anonymity cell attained.

_Still no good._

Oh, sure, here the walls would shield him from prying concerns, commiserate platitudes wading pool deep, or those who would on one side champion his altruistic decisiveness for Quest’s sake, while the other mouth side bitched about how now unrequited was piled atop untrained, unskilled and unprepared. Here the walls could keep those particular wolves from the gate, but their protection stopped short of his own misery.

_Tomorrow I’m bound for the shadows, alone, but tonight –_

“Let there be light!”

He turned them all on, flicked knobs, yanked chains, clicked bulbs three ways on high, the wattage burning up over a thousand. Still not enough. Fluorescents in the bathroom sputter spilled out unflattering light, open closets illumination and leaf motif nightlights all called into service against heart’s darkness.

_Good, good. No shadows, no hidden places. Can see nook, cranny, under the bed even. A napkin from breakfast, that horrible breakfast, that breakfast that Sam brought me, and then he hugged me and worried over me and –_

“Music!”

He needed music, noise, cacophonous sound to over shout his grief. Not really caring what – _Sam always liked – Stop it! –_ Bose speakers and I-Pad shuffle agreed to share their taste with the ninth floor.

_Your choice to walk away from him, your decision. Now, fucking deal with it!_

Inside demons blinded and Modest Mouse muted, outside ones – a dozen different perfumes, too many handshakes sweat, all the fawning cluelessness, his own party hypocrisy and crusty hair gel – were next.

_Not enough volume in the Hillsview reservoir…_

Hot water scald a form of penance, he supposed, but which side of sin’s tossed coin – commission or omission – Frodo refused to call. When soaping up hand brushed metal, he knew he was damned either way.

_The Ring. It’s mine now. I wear it, I carry it, it is a part of me._

And that shape was all around him, from the shower drain to the toothbrush holder, to the lazy ones he drew in the steamy mirror. Unnoticed before, The Ring was everywhere.

_Just like The Eye._

Rivendell towels were decadently fluffy, and as he wrapped one around his hips, Frodo savored the moment. Had never been to Mordor, but he truly didn’t believe that the Dark Lord fretted over fabric softener in the guest laundry. A smaller slice of heaven brought his hair to wet, uneven spikes, and, as teeth were brushed and mouthwashed, the mirror scrutinized face looked back the age of a 15 year old, and a frightened fifteen year old at that. Harry Potter aside, not a face to take on the ultimate evil. Something was needed, a rough and competent, dangerous and deadly even, addition to mask the terrified twenty-three year old truth.

_Stubble? Beard? Goatee, maybe? Yeah, just like Mephistopheles. The Ring is me, and I am the Ring._

Long day, with more to carry heaped on by the hour, and wounded shoulder jackhammer pounded, the jagged scar red and swollen. _Penance, indeed._ Needed was his usual remedy for life happens aches and bothers – one of Sam’s guaranteed to loosen knots, melt troubles, hands that could cure cancer, but wait there’s more, two for the price of one with a blueberry peach smoothie thrown in – massages.

_And I told him to fuck off._

There was always Elrond’s bitter prescription, but that herb and natural ingredient infested concoction could never hope to dull the real pain. The brightest lights, the highest decibel music could never reach Frodo’s deepest hurt either.

_My future, and Sam’s absence from it._

One other panacea, albeit a temporary one, did exist, a one night only grief drown neat. But, that’s all he needed right now, one night. Tomorrow he would leave, and it being Mordor, that road no doubt was lousy with distilled pain management opportunities. With each step, as with each drink, memory of could have beens would fade. He could save the world, and lose himself, all through a haze of tequila.

_And my first dose awaits in the mini bar out in the –_

Frodo stopped, stared and stayed firmly planted in that one spot.

_Oh, fuck me._

*******

“Goodbye, Sam.”

The door closed, but his mouth didn’t.

_‘I love you, goddamnit!’_

A lifetime, and the next three’s, of wishes already cashed in on the dream of hearing those words pass Frodo’s lips. And it just happened. Frodo did and Frodo does, and a deceased happy man obit for Sam was now a reality.

_‘I love you, goddamnit!’_

In the bathroom while finalizing plans to take on the Dark Lord after making a total drunken ass out of himself was not the romantic situation he would have chosen for a declaration of that sort. However, Sam wasn’t picky. It was the words that counted.

“He loves me. He _loves_ me!”

The only thing that could have made this moment anymore specialer for Sam – Frodo’s actual presence in the same room.

“Well, shit.”

Sam had to confess to Frodo, tell all to Frodo, shout, scream and trumpet to Frodo his own loving goddamnit, but first he had to find Frodo.

Bum rushing the door, Sam plowed into the party crowd, worry over appearances and opinions way past their expiration dates. He dodged the sniggering socialites –

“Can you believe what he -”

“In front of all those -”

\- swerved to avoid the approaching storm of a Gandalf lecture –

“Samwise, and that name certainly suits -”

\- and barely gave any attention to longtime nuisances -

“ _Are_ you going to Mordor, Sam?”

“Yes, Pippin!”

\- the wings of his frantic pace to find Frodo updrafted by gnawing where to start uncertainty.

_Party? Outside? Garden? Kitchen? Home?_

Circles within circles, mind spinning opposite from body, the possibilities – and motion – nauseating.

_Where did he – where would he – Think! Supposed to know him better than – Think! All of Rivendell, all of NYC, Christ! So many, too many - come on, Frodo, where the fuck did you –_

**_DING!_ **

The answer to Sam’s searching quandry.

_Room!_

He rushed past a didn’t even notice Power Couple waiting there, diving into the elevator first, the nine button receiving all his attention, and he their suspicious scrutiny. Seems he’d been recognized, and they dithered over sharing the ride with the drippy haired, tux pants wet stained in embarrassing spots wearing, obligatory shoe stuck toilet paper dragging as the party’s inebriated entertainer. _Always nice to have fans._ But, Frodo finding time was a’ wasting, so Sam kindly helped their decision to join him along. Cocking his head to the right, he opened his eyes very wide, grabbed at his crotch, and Cheshire Cat grinned. “Off my medication. Going up?”

He had the elevator all to himself straight to the ninth floor.

_And what do I do if he’s not there? Keep searching, that’s what, all night, all week, for Frodo, search forever._

The tops of the trees in the lobby reached to this floor, and Sam had to bat leaves out of his face as he careened down the hallway, taking the corners wide. _Not too late, can’t be too late, please be not too late._ Of course, skidding to a graceful stop had been his original plan, but the combination of thick carpet and new dress shoes put the kibosh on his neat arrival at Frodo’s door. _Oh, no, no, no, no – shit!_ Arms pin wheeling to stop his forward momentum, his body slammed back against the wall. _Fuck!_ It knocked what little breath he had out of his lungs. _And now’s a good time for a moment._ The sensation of Frodo’s tongue inside his mouth kept him company as breathing gasped back to normal. _The touch of his lips, the scent of his skin, the pressure of his body against –_ though that did nothing for either pulse rate or blood pressure.

_Frodo, here I –_

The door handle would not budge.

_Locked. Damnit! Then knock, you ninnyhamer._

And he did, five times, loud, sharp, knuckle stinging knocks, called Frodo’s name, even jiggled the handle again out of perhaps this time frustration, but every attempt, every plea to open up absorbed by the coming from inside music.

_Christ, could he turn in up any – probably in there then, that’s good, and I’m out here, that’s bad. I’m out here and need to get into there, but I can’t get in there until he opens the –_

*headdoor*

“Key! I still have his fucking room -”

And Sam was off, charging down the corridor again, to the other side of the floor. Not wishing to repeat the shoe and carpet blunder though, he did slow down to a headlong scramble before reaching his room. A fumble or two getting the card out of his pocket, and he was inside.

“OK, key…key…” his eyes swept the barely lived in room, “Frodo’s key card, where did I leave…”

Not on the bedside table, not in the sitting nook. Wasn’t by the TV, near by the ice bucket, or over by the mini cappuccino machine. Nor was the key card, now Sam’s Holy Grail, under the bed, on the closet floor, stuck behind the curtains, fallen between wall and dresser, stuffed in the trash can, or his pants pockets, which he savagely dug into for the sixth time, silk snatched inside out just to make absolutely sure, in and around and through that room with a fine toothed mania that the sick idea of no Frodo room key after all hairballed the back of his throat until his failure to find hacked out a glomp of mushy curses.

“Damn! GODdamn! Shit, fuck, pi – jeans!”

In a soggy ball by the toilet, left back pocket, absently shoved there during breakfast delivery, divine success.

“Shit, can’t believe I didn’t remem – too worried over -”

Who was that disheveled, disarrayed, deranged looking man in the mirror?

Sam Gamgee, that’s who, and though precious nanoseconds had been already cashed in, he withdrew a few more to remove the sodden wrinkled embodiment, and blaring reminder, of tonight’s painful lessons.

_Stick to my own circles, trust my instincts, don't piss off Frodo and drink domestic from now on._

Stripped down to his freckles – _nothing worse than wet bunched up boxers –_ with usual denim uniform unavailable, the only clothes within easy reach - a long sleeved T-shirt commemorating last year’s marathon, and his ratty old sweatpants that he used to clean the storeroom at Bag End – would have to do for his long time coming confession.

_Not what I wear, but my words. I hope._

Of course, don’t give a shit like attire does not negate proper personal hygiene. _Tasted like Molson’s the last time we -_ Teeth and hair brushing simultaneously a skill he acquired while attending PS #95. _Never late for class._ Stubble shave nixed, two wobbly aimed deodorant swipes, sneakers stomped on, Frodo’s room key card grabbed, and Sam was back out running down the hall, the transformation from soggy tux to sloppy sweats accomplished in six minutes flat.

_Get in that room and kiss him, then say I too love – kiss him, then tell all the reasons I should – kiss him, then explain that he’s not – better plan, kisses first, talk later. MUCH later._

A tinge of fear flicked Sam’s heart right before he swiped the key at Frodo’s door. _What if he’s really not here? Then you’ll just wait. What if he doesn’t want me? That’s not what that kiss said. What if he’s not alone?_ That one Sam did not answer, but it most certainly would involve the railing, jumping, and lots of blood.

_Take two – Frodo, here I –_

The music thrummed through the floor, rattling the crystal decanter set on the table, jarring teeth and mind. The room was empty, but there was movement in the bathroom. _Feel like a creeper now, coming into his room uninvited. Maybe I should just go back out and –_

Sam stopped, stared and stayed firmly planted in that one spot.

_Oh, fuck me._

Frodo flushed pink, well scrubbed, wrinkly from the water and clad only in a towel.

_…Blink. Blink, you idiot before your eyeballs dry up and fall out and hang dangling from your optic nerve. I should say something. Not that he could hear me over the the fucking music, which is a good thing, ‘cause I can’t think of anything to say, anything that wouldn’t be lame considering I’m standing here with his room key in my hand…_

…Key in his hand. That’s how he got in. I’d say something, but I got nothing. Couldn’t hear over the fucking music anyway. But, not going to turn it down, because that would mean I’ve got to walk and my legs seem to have forgotten how to do that, so I’ll just stand here and be stupidly silent and look at him. Oh, god, does he look good!...

_…he looks good! Skin so pale it’s like the first light of dawn, his eyes…_

…like the autumn sunset. Why can’t I be this…

_…poetic when I’m actually talking to him. Mouth usually like a broken pipe spewing forth stupid garbage…_

…inane drivel…

_…should tell him he’s beautiful…_

…he’s hot…

_…he’s incredibly beautiful…_

…he’s fucking hot…

_…tell him, that hip, just peeking over the towel, tell him how it would fit perfectly into mine…_

…hips would mold into mine.

… _but, I can’t speak…_

…can’t move…

… _then show him, dickhead…_

…show him, asswipe…

_… show how I feel, how I love him, show him two years’ worth…_

…of fantasizing about this very moment, me and him, the two of us alone…

… _all alone…_

…all his. But, how…

_…how do I…_

…show him everything…

…give him everything…

…nothing between us, not even…

_…Oh, sweet Jesus, he’s dropping the towel. Where do I look now? I mean, I can’t look there. Can I? No, fuck! It’s right there, right THERE! Thank God for the sweatpants, ‘cause I now have Gibraltar - and his eyes! Look at those eyes! He wants me…_

…want you, Sam. Lick my lips, yeah, wet lips all puckered, gets him every time. Come to me, Sam, I’m waiting…

_… waiting. I know he is. But, don’t want to stop looking, staring, his naked body, can’t I just look at you, Frodo? Just look?..._

…He’s just looking…

_…looking at perfection. He is perfection., and I’m…I’m…what? Not worthy, that’s what. Not in his time zone, hemisphere, solar system, dimension. I’m nothing. You’re too good, Frodo, for the likes of me…_

…not good enough? Not live up to his expectations...

_…beyond my wildest dreams…_

…And he just stands there, doing nothing. Nothing! Oh, fuck, what have I…

_…wait a minute. What’s he doing. No! Frodo, don’t turn away, I’m not done looking at - of course, this view of him’s not bad either…_

…Goddamn idiot! Fucking moron! He doesn’t want…

_…want to taste, touch, explore, to hell with that, I want to fuck him, take him, be inside of him._

…all because I couldn’t…

_… can’t wait any longer..._

…Lost a friend, my best…

_…Frodo – mine – NOW…_

…now what am I supposed to – Sam! Shit! That hurts! My shoulder, remember?...

_…don’t forget about his shoulder…_

…mirror kinda’ cold against my - but, oh, the tongue, now, tongue on my neck, my ear, Shit! Did he just bite me? Again, Sam again!...

_…tastes good. Ear different then shoulder, not the same as neck. Oh, fuck! That sweet ass…_

…rub just a little to the right, the right, There! Now I feel it ! The heat, the rock that is Sam. Come on, push harder!...

_…harder, Frodo, harder…_

…loose the sweatpants, Gamgee, need you against my ass. The sweatpants. Take the goddamn sweatpants off!...

_…sweatpants down, down, down…shit! Sneakers first, there. Off shoes, off sweatpants and oh…oh…his ass to me…oh, fuck, that’s fine!..._

…keep rubbing, that’s right. Up the middle, right there. Jesus!...

_…mouth. Got to kiss him, now…_

…If I don’t turn around, I’m going to fuck this closet door…

_…There. Face me, Frodo. Give me your mouth…_

…your mouth…

_…He uses Listerine…_

…uses Crest…

_…Chest rubbing, good, tongues licking, better. Dicks touching, damn, DAMN! Fuck! This is so good!..._

…Go for the nipples, Sam, the nipples. Oh, rub, yes, move your hips. Oh, god right there, yes, yes…

_…yes…_

…back to the nipples. Grab mine, grab it, Sam. Oh, fuck, let me show you…

_…OW Fuck, that hurt! They don’t pull off, ya’ know. That’s what you want? Well, here it comes!..._

…Shit! Fast learner…

_…Grab my ass now, Frodo, pull me in. My dick against yours, mouth on yours. Yes…_

…yes, together…

_…Almost there…_

…My head hitting - shit - the door - damn - is not - fuck - a great mood enhancer…

_…banging… to… the… beat… of… the… music…_

…the music…

_…Rub up and down, right there. Hey! Bring that tongue back!..._

…can’t breathe…

_…neck is just as good…_

…can’t breathe, too good, too good…

_...rub, rub against me, Frodo…_

…too good. Into me, Sam…

_…up and down, thrust, Frodo,_ let me taste you, oh god _that’s right! Now,_ now oh, shit! Now dick to _dick body to_ body pull me _closer closer_ closer your _breath in my mouth your_ breath our breath closer _up and_ down now _now yes,_ yes! Now! _NOW! YES!_ Oh, god! _NOW!_ NOW! _YES!_ YES!

“I LOVE YOU!”

A good fifteen minute recovery time, followed by chaste solo showers, Frodo and Sam snuggled impossibly tangled in king size’s middle, the mellow sounds of Dave Brubeck jazzing softly. Sam’s fingers drew lazy 8’s on Frodo’s arm, while he spooned back into Sam’s warmth. _It has always been like this,_ Sam enjoying how Frodo’s breath ruffled the hair on his arm, _not physically – and that’s unfucking believable – but emotionally, even spiritually._ Their connection had begun that day in the bookstore and tonight it came full circle. _A circle. A ring._ For the first time, he noticed it around Frodo’s neck. _Mind on other body parts._ “Um, Frodo?”

He purred, pushing back. “Yes, Sam-love, what?”

_Sam-love. He just called me Sam-love. OK, I admit it, inside, I’m squeezing right now._ “About you going to Mordor without me.” Frodo went stiff under him, and not in the good way. “Now that I’ve had this, no way in hell I’m not giving it up.”

“Sam, I don’t want you to get hurt, or worse. I could not bear to see you suffer.”

“And staying here at home wouldn’t be suffering? Not knowing whether you were alright or hurt or in pain? Whether you remembered to eat, sleep, use sun screen?” Spinning Frodo around to face him, Sam spoke his truth. “Frodo, don’t you see being parted from you would hurt me far worse than any shit the Dark Lord could throw at us?”

“Shit worse than you could possibly imagine, Sam.” Shifting slightly, Frodo drew up the chain, placing the Ring in his palm. “This is evil, and a heavy burden that I alone must carry.”

Sam curled his hand around Frodo’s and the Ring. “I understand that, Frodo. So, let’s say, where ever, no matter how long it takes, you carry that Ring, and within that same time frame and distance, I’ll carry you.”

Something released, or melted, or dissolved or just plain evaporated away with Frodo’ s sigh. “I love you, Samwise Gamgee.”

“Frodo Baggins, I love you.”

The kiss simple sweet, that kiss forged the future.

Sitting up abruptly, Frodo pulled the chain over his head, the Ring tossed aside. “Want to be completely alone when we do that closet door thing again.”

“Again.” Sam rolled on top, excited that Frodo was excited, which excited Sam more which gave rise to even more Frodo excitement – “and again, and again, and again.” – which tripled Sam’s excitement, which meant if they didn’t do something soon, all that excitement would start without them. “Need to ask one thing, though.”

“What’s that, Sam?”

“Do you think we could turn off the lights? Feel like my ass is getting sun burnt here.”

Frodo giggled and agreed, though Sam could not watch the naked darken the room circuit, that whole excitement overload thing. And he near bit his tongue in half and strangled soon to be VERY important bits just imaging Frodo’s progress – _Frodo’s body, Frodo’s arms and delicate fingers, Frodo’s shoulders and Frodo’s lean abs, Frodo’s legs, and Frodo’s ass, and Frodo’s -_ Yet all those erotic and graphic squinched tight eye flashes comparison paled when Frodo’s weight and warmth sheet slipped back in beside him.

“Going to Mordor, Frodo,” tongue circumnavigating an ear.

“Going to Mordor, Sam,” hands exploring down under.

The only inextinguishable lights, moon’s rising bright and heaven’s purest gem, with window pane peeks catching gold, waiting, watching, their shared night's vigil held the new lovers and their secrets safe.

For now.

 

*****

 

The next morning, bright and early, Merry and Pippin walked into Elrond’s office with a purpose. They were going to Mordor, case closed, end of story. And they told Elrond as much.

“This is not some picnic, gentlemen.” Elrond sat frowning, of course, at the two friends. “Not some joyride just for kicks.”

“You seem to be forgetting all about how we came to be here in the first place.” Merry was never very good at respecting authority.

“The Nazgul are but a mere trifle of what awaits in Mordor, and on the journey there.”

“Lord Elrond,” Pippin soothed, ever the diplomat, “This can happen one of two ways. First, you tell us no, throw us in a cab, which we promptly ditch and follow Frodo and Sam on our own. Or, second, we save ourselves a whole mess of trouble by being included from the start in your little group. Band. Fellowship.”

Elrond held his harsh expression, a precise count of ten, then sighed heavily. “Since your bravado refuses to heed my warnings, I will do nothing to impede your foolhardiness. Though I am positive you will soon regret the decision, you may accompany your friends to Mordor.”

“Gee, thanks.” After that condescending and qualifier laden speech, begrudging gratitude the best Merry could do.

“You may not feel like thanking me when you see the fires of Oroduin.”

But, Pip was not troubled. “We’ll be fine. Besides, I know all about fire and brimstone, Elrond,” his smile broad, his confidence secure, “I’m a Southern Baptist.”


	9. Chapter nine

 

 

 

The sheet, barely covering her breast, made its journey up and down twenty times a minute. The heartbeat sixty-two within the same space of time, and it was a minute he wished he could have back to relive again and again, caught in an endless loop that found him always in her arms.

“Don’t tell me it’s morning already?” The voice soft, interrupting his count.

“Almost,” he reached out to entwine one lock of velvet between his fingers, “But, I don’t want to be late. Sets a bad precedent.”

Two grey eyes opened, catching both his surreptitious departure and his breath. “The sun isn’t even up, for Eru’s sake. Lie down again.”

“The sun will be up before you know it. Besides, there’s much to prepare.”

The sheet left its resting place revealing the naked form. “Lie back down.”

“Arwen…”

“I have not heard the garbage trucks yet. Therefore, morning has not arrived, which means there is no reason for you to be over there.” She moved to lie on her back, hands above her head. “There is still time, Aragorn.”

_No, Arwen, no there’s not._ His thumb ran down the straight path from collar bone to navel. _And while we have been discussing this, two more minutes that cannot be retrieved have passed me by._ “I must go.”

Capturing his hand, Arwen drew it lower, placing it between her legs, arching up into his touch. “I know, but not just yet.”

Without her prodding, his other hand found a breast, palm bringing the nipple to ready. “If your father finds -”

“His are old fashioned notions and ancient world ideals.” The tip of one pointed ear peeked out from the waterfall of hair about her pillow. “My life, my decision, and I choose you.”

Abandoning his resolve and early start to his reawakened desire, Aragorn blanketed his naked body across Arwen’s heated one. It found her more than ready, and he entered her without hesitation. “You have chosen a man without a future, Arwen,” he whispered into her mouth.

“Who is to say what the future holds for you, Aragorn,” voice husky, her hips moved slowly to her lover’s dance, “Your path lays to the south, I understand. You must guide Frodo.”

His tanned hands were a shock across her pale shoulders. “But, that path leads me to the one place I do not wish to go. What if I, too -”

“You are not your ancestors, my love. Just because they failed does not mean you will fall to the same fate.”

He took the offered leg and brought her knee to his ear, trailing kisses along her sweat slicked skin. Delving further, Aragorn needed to see her lips parted in ecstasy. “I do not like the idea of you waiting, wasting your life on something that may never be.”

She traced fingers against the outline of his lips, her body undulating, matching the increased rhythm. “I have grown accustomed to waiting, my love. It has been my constant companion.” Her body pushed upwards, ready, on the edge.

He bore down, in, precipice reached. “And I cannot bear to ask that of you anymore.”

“But, hope dwells with me, also.” Arwen took Aragorn’s hand again, and this time brought it to her cheek, the other she placed on his chest, over his heart. “And hope is what I give to you, meleth.”

They crossed over together; almost like a sigh, their desires peaked, and then fell away like moonbeams to the encroaching dawn.

“I love you, Arwen Undomiel.”

“And I you. Forever.”

Over used and old machinery rattled up from the streets, their moment now irretrievable, and Arwen smiled wistfully. “Ah, now it is the dawn and you, my love, must go.”

He placed a kiss of tenderness and remembrance on her lips before rising to dress and gather his things. “I will dream about you,” lingering in the doorway, his courage to leave, to stay, tethered by a obligation tattered string, “In my thoughts at night, you will be there.”

She smiled again, a single tear chasing down from the corner of her eye. “It will be a good dream then. Goodbye, meleth. I will be here when you return.”

Aragorn passed out into the hallway clinging to a heartful of minutes that he had little faith he would ever get the chance to relive again.

*****

 

 

“Take it, Frodo. Go on, I’m giving this to you.”

Frodo wasn’t sure he wanted it. The last thing Bilbo had given him turned out not to be such a great gift. “But, what is it?”

“Very, very rare. Won’t find anything like it over here,” Bilbo was back rummaging in his old adventures trunk, “It’s mithril.”

“Mithril?” Obviously a Seventies word going by the sleeved disco ball in his hands. “Never heard of it.”

“Can’t say as I’m surprised. Veins played out at least a millennia ago.” His head buried deep. “Stronger than steel, harder than iron. Better than a bullet proof vest. Far as I know, it’s the only one in existence.”

“Oh, no, Bilbo, I can’t take this.” Guarding that other One was more than enough for Frodo.

“What good is it to me here in Rivendell? And you just may need it where you’re…uhm.”

The mood in Bilbo’s room chilled a couple of degrees. Understandably anxious and antsy this morning to begin with when summoned to his uncle’s room, now sad layered on top. It would be goodbyes just when helloes had reunited. _Only I’m walking away this time._ “Something this priceless, precious,”   _something this fucking tacky,  “_ I don’t know, Bilbo.”

“I insist. Instead of, well,” twitching hands filled in that blank, “I want you to have a _good_ reminder of your old uncle.”

“Oh, Bilbo.” Drawing him into a fierce hug, Frodo embraced a frail man. Over the last several days those Ring stalling twenty years had finally caught up. _So what, doesn’t matter at all._ Although wrinkles and receding gray hairline belonged to Bilbo now, Frodo would never believe this man, his friend, his family, his rescuer, his rock, the man that loved to entertain The Shire’s kids with the rubber glove chicken would ever truly be old. “Don’t need a shiny shirt. All my memories are wonderful.”

He pushed back from his young nephew, an angry swipe at embarrassed tears. “Please, Frodo, for me?”

Such a small act to earn his uncle’s joy. “OK, I’ll take the mithril.”

“And wear it under your shirt, so no one suspects. Would just start an argument, everybody wanting one.”

_Yeah, not unless everybody wants to cosplay “Velvet Goldmine.”_  Mithril bound for the bottom of his backpack. “It will be our secret.”

“Take this, too,” another package dug from the depths of the trunk’s history, this one long and slender, “got it on the same trip as the shirt. Go ahead, open it!”

Worn soft fabric peeled away to reveal – “It’s a…a…”

“Sting.”

“Sting.” Frodo had never held one before except that one time during a high school production of “Twelfth Night”, but that really didn’t count: it had been a prop and the fight choreographed.

“There’s a tale that goes with that sword, Frodo. The blade sings and glows when trouble is near. Sort of like an early detection device. Never seen it work, though. And here’s hoping you will have no need of it, either.”

“Where, where did you get this?” Frodo twirled the hilt around in his hand in a move that used to drive the fight coordinator nuts. “It’s so light.”

“On my treasure hunt,” throwing things back into the trunk stopped to whisper, “But, if some guy named Smaug asks, you’ve never heard of me.”

An interrupting telephone call informed Frodo that he was expected downstairs immediately, this goodbye at an end.

“Put the mithril shirt on before you go, Frodo.”

_Oh, shit._ “What, now?”

“Sure, sure. Here, I’ll hold Sting.”

Bilbo stood right there, eagerness to see his gift fully accepted Frodo’s foot bouncing guilt trip. “OK, I’ll put on the shirt.” _But, first bathroom stop, off comes Liberace’s underwear._ A stiff zipper stalled half way down, zipper stiff like everything he wore. Traveling clothes, brand new, brand name, and the sizes matching exactly, appeared first thing this morning. Thankful, especially for the hiking boots, his arriving in Rivendell Converse beyond all help and repair, though why the second set, all in Sam’s right sizes were included in that same delivered to Frodo’s door package gave the flannel and denim a door listening/hidden camera creepy kind of vibe.  _Hope they enjoyed the show. I sure as hell did._ “Damn zipper won’t – there, got it.” Puffy vest finally off, next shirt buttons, and -

“Hurry up, Elrond becomes very cross if kept waiting.”

Bilbo stood right there, and right there under the shirt lay - _The Ring._ Not again, he would not, could not. _Save Bilbo the humiliation, and my Bilbo memories._ Frodo turned his back on his uncle, and finished the unbuttoning job quickly.

“Frodo, don’t tell me you’re modest now.”

“Just a little, I guess. Tell me,” a conversational right turn into a safer neighborhood, “what are your plans now? Back to Bag End?”

Bilbo shook his head as the flannel shirt came off and his gift slipped on. “I don’t know, Frodo. I’ve been toying with the idea of writing my memoirs. You know, tales of how a modest middle aged man managed to get there and back again.”

_Well, I’ll be damned._ A perfect fit. At first afraid it would be heavy, it being metal and all, or maybe binding under the arms like some t-shirts could be, but Bilbo’s magical mithril was nothing like that. By the time Frodo turned back to his uncle, flannel and puffy replaced, the Ring safely tucked away, he could almost believe it was not even there. “That’s a wonderful idea, Bilbo! You could even add in a few of your original stories, you know the one with the trolls, or the eagles.”

Bilbo placed Sting into the side of Frodo’s backpack. “Nah, then people would want to put it in the children’s section. There’s nothing childish about giant spiders and almost being burned alive, let me tell you.”

“Whatever you decide to write, Bilbo, I’m sure it will be just like you: unique and fabulous.” Pausing in the doorway - _So, this is it. I’m leaving, really leaving -_ Frodo brought his uncle back into another hug, Bilbo’s arms awkward around the backpack. “Don’t give the folks around here too much trouble.”

“Oh, you know me, Frodo.”

“Yes, I do and you should come with a warning label.”

“Be careful out there. The road can be a dangerous place.”

“I’ll look both ways before crossing.”

“Plenty of rest, three healthy meals and, remember, hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.”

“Sure you don’t want to come and tuck me in at night?”

“Frodo, if I could only -” he stepped back, away, anguish and regret left to stand between them mute. “You must keep a journal, too, and we can collaborate when you return.”

“I’d like nothing better, Uncle Bilbo.” Frodo Walked to the elevators, parting tears only witness a waiting Sam. _Next trip, Bilbo and I go together._

*******

 

Out of the parking garage, turn left onto 51st street. Immediately surrounded by traffic. Didn’t bother him, used to it. It was a killer both inside and out of the beltway, so here in the heart of NYC was no different. Only he isn’t driving; he is sitting in the passenger seat, shotgun _\- called it first –_ uncomfortable, ill at ease, clutching the silly guide book.

First Avenue passed and a slow crawl towards second. His companions in the back are having a childish discussion.

“They’re huge!”

“Well, you know what they say about the size of a man’s feet.”

“Is that true, Frodo?”

“Is that true, Pip?”

This inane drivel irks him for some reason and he makes a move to stop it. “I would rather not hear about the size of your feet, or any other part for that matter.” It was the wrong thing to do, just opens up the conversation further. Everybody joins in.

GIMLI: (smiling behind his beard) I heard it was the size of a man’s hands.

LEGOLAS: (not looking up from his “The Art of Zen” book) It’s all in the technique.

GANDALF: (a twinkle in his eye) No, no, dear boys. It is the size of one’s nose that is the true measuring stick.

He tries valiantly to once again end this topic. “They say that size doesn’t matter anyway.”

ARAGORN: (smirking) But, those are the ones who have only themselves to convince in the dark.

Second Avenue creeps by. He shifts stiff  in the stained cloth seat wishing for more leg room, a rare commodity in this 1995 Suburban with brown wooden accents and a ‘Bill’ vanity plate.

MERRY: We look like refugees from some halfway house.

LEGOLAS: I prefer to look on this as some sort of scientific expedition.

MERRY: Oh, yeah, we’re scientists that all shop at LL Bean.

PIP: Very woodsy.

SAM: More like a prison baseball team.

MERRY: Then Pip here would be the shortstop.

PIP: And Merry the ballboy.

SAM: (rolling his eyes) That’s BATboy, you wanker.

PIP: Merry can do that, too.

Third Avenue just went by and they were right back on that same subject.

ARAGORN:(with another smirk) No, we’re a Monty Python sketch.

A rousing rendition of “I’m a Lumberjack” takes them all the way to Park Place. He ticks off St. Bartholomew’s Church in his guide book, a brotherly compromise. He winces as they wait for the chance to slip around a delivery truck, the slap of his father’s words stinging in empathy. ‘ _This is not some pleasure seeking vacation. I need to send someone who will get the job done, not wander about gawking like an idiot. Send you, Faramir? Don’t make me laugh. No, Boromir will go, Boromir will bring me the prize.’_  The book had been slipped to him secretly with the simple request to see it all, Instagram if he could.   _Will not fail. Either of them._

St. Patrick’s checked and, posted as well as the International Building as Madison Avenue is reached.

PIP: So, exactly where are we going?

ARAGORN: Newark.

PIP: (confused) Hell is in New Jersey?

ARAGORN: No, Pip. Newark is just our next stop. Our final destination is further south.

MERRY: What a lame question, Pip, even for you.

The wrestling match in the seat directly behind him stopped only by the driver’s terse words.

ARAGORN: That’s enough, gentlemen. Save it for when you’re alone.

He normally didn’t care for uptight pricks – _smug, elitist brainiac –_ but, for Legolas, who sat right next to the inane prattlers, he actually felt kind of sorry.

MERRY: And on your right, ladies and gentlemen, you will see Rockefeller Plaza. Home to those famous high kickin’ whores, the Rockettes.

GIMLI: Now wait just a minute, my grandmother was a Rockette.

LEGOLAS: She must have been very popular.

Pip brought up David Letterman, and they spent the next ten minutes and two blocks coming up with their own Top Ten Lists.

By the end of this - and the top reason why Elrond always frowns: He hasn’t gotten any in, like, a millennia - which brought peals of laughter from some, mild amusement from others, and a cough/gag fit for Aragorn, he had Pip pegged as a pleaser – _no one can be that happy all the time –_ and the other one, Merry, a spoiled rich kid poser. _And what they see in each other, I sure as hell better never lay eyes on._

At Broadway some actual trouble starts.

ARAGORN: (showing his irritation) Can’t get to the Lincoln Tunnel from here. They have it all blocked off. Filming or something.

LEGOLAS: (not looking up) Woody Allen’s latest, no doubt.

GANDALF: Then go north and try the George Washington Bridge.

FRODO: (sitting up in the back seat) Is there a problem?

GIMLI: Just a detour

SAM: Never mind, Frodo.

Of all the people he knew, that slight, sheltered, over educated young man with melancholy in his eyes would have been his very last choice to carry the fate of the world on his shoulders. He watches as Frodo steals a furtive glance towards Gandalf, receive a reassuring nod in return, then slump back down next to Sam. _We are so fucked._

They are headed north on Broadway now, traffic flowing at a faster clip.

Sam. _Now, he I understand._ The fierce loyalty and love displayed at that wretched party made everything perfectly clear to anyone who had the brains to notice: Frodo belonged to Sam and he would probably kill anyone who tried to touch him. As they reach the intersection of Broadway and 56th, Sam’s eyes meet his, and the ‘No second chances given’ warning passed between. _Oh, yes. Sam – Frodo’s pit bull._

PIP: It’s too quiet in here. Let’s turn on the radio.

The antenna is slightly bent, and he isn’t sure if the damn thing even worked, but he complies if only to get a little rest from the constant chattering. If he had had his way, Merry and Pip would be as far away from him as possible. However, when the seating arrangement topic came up, Sam had declared a whole seat for him and Frodo, Gimli refused to sit with Legolas, Gandalf demanded leg room and Pip announced that he got car sick if forced to sit in the back. That put the quietest ones all the way in the rear and the chatty ones right in his ear.

PIP: Find a country station.

MERRY: You’ve got to be kidding with that crap. Metal, only metal.

LEGOLAS: You should be able to pick up NPR.

GIMLI: Boring! Go to WABC. Let’s hear Curtis and Kuby in the Morning.

GANDALF: We need something to calm our nerves. Classical is the best choice.

Aragorn says he would prefer to listen to the financial news, but leaves the decision to Frodo.

FRODO: (with wide eyes) Oh, I don’t know. (He looks at Sam)

SAM: No baseball or hockey games on, yet, I guess.

FRODO: Nothing loud, then. Why not some jazz?

WBOG, 88.3 on your FM dial soon brings the mellow sounds of Spyro Gyro out across Bill and the chatter stops. His bliss lasts for all of 15 minutes.

PIP: (sinking down in his seat) Uh oh. Hope nobody sees us.

MERRY: Yeah, right, Pip. All our professors have the time to stand on the corner and watch to see if any of their students drive by.

FRODO: (voice muffled from the back) Wonder if we’ll get the opportunity to make up our missed work.

MERRY: Not a chance. Don’t recall seeing ‘Saving the World from Ultimate Evil’ on Dr. Jackson’s short list of acceptable excuses for missing class.

GIMLI: (to an obviously distressed Gandalf) You don’t look so good. You OK?

FRODO: (sitting up and putting a hand on his shoulder) Gandalf? What’s wrong?

The old man looks truly shaken.

GANDALF: Saruman.

FRODO: What about him?

GANDALF: (taking a moment to calm himself) I’ve held back this information due only to my own pride. But, the circumstances under which we travel far outweigh my need to escape humiliation. (Turning in his seat to face Frodo) I was unable to meet you at the Prancing Pony –

FRODO: (cutting in) I know, you said you were delayed.

GANDALF: The truth of the matter is I was held against my will in a faculty meeting for 14 hours. Saruman wasted no breath, trick or excuse to get me to join forces with him and try to take the Ring.

FRODO: (hand grabbing at his chest) Why? Why would Professor Saruman do that?

GANDALF: He has been corrupted by Sauron.

An audible gasp goes through the Suburban and Bill swerves a bit.

ARAGORN: This is grave news indeed.

GIMLI: Understatement of the century.

FRODO: (voice tight with fear) But, how did Sauron get to him? Saruman is the head of your department for Christ’s sake!

GANDALF: Studying evil even only for knowledge’s sake is a dangerous thing, Frodo. In his quest to know all, Saruman let his defenses down, and the Dark Lord is very quick to slip in when a weakness presents itself. Through words of promise, Saruman was seduced and convinced that with my joining him, the Ring and Sauron could be bent to his will. I escaped only when a fire alarm was pulled in a foolish prank, distracting him enough for me to be able to slip out the window. I’m afraid our list of allies against Sauron grows shorter.

The crowns on the wrought iron gates of the Amsterdam entrance to Columbia are watched in dead silence as they drive by.

ARAGRON: (cursing under his breath) Damn!

Road construction. All around, bright neon orange cones inform them the George Washington Bridge could not be accessed from this way. The signs point them to east on 95 and circle back around using Harlem River Drive, approaching the bridge from the opposite direction.

GANDALF: These constant delays are maddening!

LEGOLAS: Go north on eighty-seven to White Plains, then cross over.

GIMLI: But, that would take us miles out of our way! (throwing his voice to the front) Aragorn! Just follow the signs. I’m sure we’ll get back on the right path soon enough.

LEGOLAS: (first glance out the window since the trip began) Not if some traffic engineer from the DOT planned it. The more difficult and confusing the better.

GIMLI: Well, if it had been designed better in the first place…

He’s amazed listening to those two bitch - _I actually miss Pip and Merry_.

Neither the convoluted detour from the DOT or Legolas’ option works out. The traffic is a huge snarl, just before lunchtime, and despite what he is sure are excellent driving skills, Aragorn is unable to merge Bill into the correct lane. They cross the Harlem River surrounded by two Explorers and a lime green Hummer complete with flames burning up the paint job.

SAM: Welcome to the Bronx!

Even though not a must see, he checks it off anyway.

ARAGORN: OK, we go down and around, off Jerome Avenue and back on.

Leaving the highway goes smoothly until a large BANG!, a whump-whump and Bill lurching drops their situation in the for shit pile.

GIMLI: Wonderful, just wonderful!

PIP: We should have flown. A commuter flight at least.

MERRY: (pointing to the tip of Gimli’s shotgun poking out from beneath the seat) Don’t think we would have gotten through airport security.

PIP: Ooo, do we get one of those?

Aragorn wrenches the ailing van into an abandoned parking lot, passengers spill out to the cracked and trash lousy asphalt to stand and stare at Bill listing.

GANDALF: The forces against us most assuredly had a hand in this.

GIMLI: It’s just a flat tire.

GANDALF: And traffic? The road construction?

GIMLI: Just described a typical New York day.

ARAGORN: Regardless of how, or why, we cannot stay standing here.

At last! An intelligent suggestion. “Right, let’s get this changed.” He and Aragorn set to the task, while Gimli and Legolas, not speaking, move to unpack the back and get at the spare. This leaves Gandalf to supervise and the four young friends on their own. _Bad miscalculation._

PIP: There’s a diner! Come on, Merry. I’m hungry!

The two skip into the street happily dodging the cars, ignoring the one fingered salutes and duck into the Red Horn Pass Diner. Frodo is moments behind, and where Frodo is – “Watch out for the - Frodo!” –so  goes Sam. _Now maybe I will get some peace._

LEGOLAS: The person who packed this is by far the most mentally deficient human being I’ve ever had the displeasure to associate with.

GIMLI: Wasn’t aware that you spent any time with human beings, Legolas. Thought only Androids and Apples would tolerate you.

LEGOLAS: This from a man who gets a hard on just looking at a bulldozer.

Shaking his head in resignation, Boromir sticks the guide book back in this pocket and goes to separate those two. _Little brother, you, by far, got the better end of this deal. You only have to deal with Father. I’m stuck with the Fellowship._

*****

 

“No bacon for me, ma’am,” Sam handed the gum smacking, bleached blonde waitress the plate back.

“I’ll take it!” Merry nabbed the plate from her truly uninterested hands.

Frodo was making an abstract design slightly reminiscent of Pollack on his pancakes. “I thought you loved bacon, Sam?”

“Maybe he’s on a diet,” Pip was having a blast breaking the yolks on his two over easy eggs with hash browns,“Ya’ know, one of those heart things.”

“Nope.” Merry dug into his fried egg sandwich. “Just wants to loose a little weight now that he’s got audience at night.”

Pip giggled, while Frodo blushed. But, the remark did not bother Sam one bit. He was quite content for everyone to know, (except for his father), that the most miraculous thing had happened: Frodo was his. “Nope, just not allowed, that’s all.” His omelet was passable; he would have sautéed the mushrooms with a bit of sweet onion first, though.

“Sam,” Frodo with fork poised by open mouth,  “I didn’t know you kept kosher.”

He was a tiny bit embarrassed. “Didn’t used to. But, considering where we’re going, and who we might meet there, I just thought I would fall on this side of caution and at least keep that mitzvah.”

“Well, I’m still not going to confession,” Merry quipped.

Pip stuck in, “The same with me and Wednesday night prayer meeting.”

Sam shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just remember, you are what you eat.”

The syrup sodden pancakes were pushed away.

“Save any for us?” Gimli’s voice above the clatter of dishes and conversation.

Merry held up the plate of bacon. “Only this.” He suddenly didn’t have the stomach for it.

When half consumed, Gimli remembered to offer some to Legolas. "Bacon?"

Sitting in the booth behind Frodo and Sam to order hot tea with lemon, the blonde head shook a reply. “No, thank you. I’m vegan.”

“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me,” and he sat down in the Merry and Pippin next booth to enjoy his food.

“What _are_ they doing?” Across the street, Aragorn and Gandalf were waving madly, but why Frodo could not fathom.

“Get down!” The usually placid and stoic dove under the table.

Gimli, Merry and Pip followed directions, but Frodo only went down when Sam’s fist full of shirt insisted.

“And why are we doing this?”

“I don’t know ask Legolas.”

“People are staring.”

“There must be hundreds of gum wads up there.”

Screeches. More Screeches. Screeching, and cawing and calling and the beat of wings cutting the air.

"Would you look at that!"

"Well, if that don't beat all!"

Frodo couldn’t stand it; he had to know what was happening. Overriding Sam’s pleas to stay down, Frodo peered over the table top to look out the window. “Fucking amazing!”

Birds, hundreds of birds, thousands, swooping down Jerome Avenue, wings touching the asphalt as they passed the diner. All black birds, or crows, or ravens screaming past the window. And just as unearthly as their entrance, the street now empty and silent.

“This is not good.” The first to recover, Legolas was out from underneath the table and the door in one swift and graceful move. “We must hurry!”

Gimli followed, a little less elegantly, “When it rains,” but just as determined.

“Wait for us!” Frodo, Merry and Pip left immediately after, leaving –

“Hey! What about the -” Sam to take care of the check. “Well, shit.”

“That was the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen.” Mustard on her lemon meringue pie lady at the counter offered her analysis.

“Nothing like those black things last week,” Now the cook from the little pickup window, ignoring the cheeseburgers ready to flip on the grill, added his expert opinion, “Was on the Fifteen bus when it happened. Scared the shit out of me.”

“Probably just some stupid publicity stunt. Ya’ know, for a movie or something.” The waitress shved too many napkins into the dispenser. “Like that guy who makes all those scary movies. ‘I see dead people’ and all.”

“If only.”  Sam and his under the breath mutter paid the tab and left exactly 15% before running after his friends, and he found them trying to decipher a conversation between Aragorn, Gandalf and Boromir.

“But, if he knows where we are, what’s the use?” Boromir was shouting.

“We must find another route.” A Gandalf counter.

“That’s what I’m saying. Take Ninety-Five all the way down, it will take us right there.”

“And right past Minas Tirith,” Aragorn cut in.

“The main roads are no longer safe, with Saruman’s spies all around,” Legolas reminded everyone.

“The birds,” Frodo whispered into Sam’s ear. Sam nodded as if that cleared everything up.

“What, birds only travel on the Jersey Turnpike?”

Nope, It didn’t.

“So, we take back roads the whole way?” Boromir argued, “All the way to Mordor? Making this trip twice as long. When all we need do is go directly down-”

“No.” Aragorn put his foot down on Boromir’s insistence. “Not taking the Ring to Minas Tirith.”

Gandalf intervened. “Well, it seems the old folks can’t come to a consensus. Frodo, you decide. Which way do we go?”

If looks could kill, one slice of Frodo’s ‘Gee, thanks shitloads, old man’ expression would have dropped Gandalf where he stood. “We will take, uhm…” Sam’s shrug offered no guidance, Aragorn stood a closed off stone, and unbelievably, neither Legolas nor Gimli had an opinion to share. Only Boromir wore his choice openly, his hard stare demanding attention, demanding leadership, demanding nothing less than total victory, and chilling Frodo to the core. “We will take,” voice’s authority utterly false, “the back roads.”

“Damn!” Swearing under his breath, Boromir walked back to Bill and jumped into the front, a very displeased door slammed.  “Goddamn!”

“Gandalf?” Frodo caught the old man’s arm while the rest climbed in, “Was that right? Did I make the correct choice?”

“Only time will tell us, Frodo. And perhaps it was a decision that had already been made for you.”

The Suburban swung into traffic, heading south on Jerome, intending to pick up the Deegan Parkway and cut around back south. The mood in the vehicle was somber, except for Sam, the ultimate sports fan. “Right by it, man, this is great! That’s baseball history right there.”

“See what, Sam? What are you so excited about?”

Even though it was Frodo, and Sam breathed only for him, he could not help himself; he had to roll his eyes at that stupid question. “Baseball, Frodo. We’re going to see Yankee Stadium!”


	10. Chapter Ten

 

As he hung by his fingertips, legs swinging into the abyss that yawned beneath, Gandalf realized the decision he was about to make was the greatest of his long life.

He really could not count the first decision, the one that had started it all, as being his. No, that one was made much further up the ladder than the rung on which he sat. But, every decision after that fateful one, the one that had brought him here, rested firmly on his shoulders. Some of them had been good: the alliance forged with Elrond, the comradeship with Aragorn; others could be called bad: losing the whereabouts of Gollum, trusting Saruman. The decision that he was most certain about, however, had been made on a whim. And if asked now what thought processes brought him to walk through the green front door of that tiny little book shop tucked down below street level on the corner of Hill Street, he would not be able to tell you. But, in he went and there behind the counter, surrounded by pipe smoke, was one Bilbo Baggins. Theirs was to become the most significant friendship of Gandalf's life, forged on the way to the Lonely Mountain.

“All I did was push you out the door, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf had said upon the little man's return, covered in stories and gold, “The thief in you was always there.”

Never one for out of the ordinary before, Bilbo had sputtered about stuff and nonsense, blaming Gandalf for ruining his reputation around the neighborhood. However, a gleam had been planted in Bilbo’s eye on his adventure, a gleam that twenty years could not dim.

The bringing of the orphaned nephew home had been a result of that newly discovered gleam, of that Gandalf was positive. The coming of Frodo had given Bilbo an outlet, a place to focus his unbounded energy; and when Gandalf had finally met the boy, he knew that he and his uncle were two of a kind. Yet, as Gandalf observed Frodo growing from sullen teenager to hard driven Grad student, something else had presented itself. A strength of will, a rock solid bottom on which the sensitive soul of Frodo leaned. Perhaps it was the tragedy of his parents and the nightmare of those intervening years, or something not quite as organic as life experience that gave Frodo his special quality. Whatever the reason, Gandalf had known it was there, had felt it rumbling through the young man and knew Frodo was destined for greatness.

Every evening he could, Gandalf had spent with Bilbo and Frodo in their apartment above Bag End discussing politics, classic literature, philosophy, religion, mundane or poignant. The boy’s mind had been insatiable, taking absolutes and turning them on their ear just for the sake of argument, and the joy of watching his uncle’s face grow red with indignation. Snagging the professorship at Columbia had been a thinly veiled move to continue to be an active member in Frodo’s ever-widening circle of friends. In the early days at college, when the demands of an over-loaded schedule and law classes did not bind him down, Frodo would drag Gandalf up to the roof of their building to lie in Sam’s small rose garden, to stargaze and dream. The legends and myths of Manwe, Yavanna and the Two Trees were first heard by Frodo surrounded by New York's skyline; the love story of Beren and Luthien, the theft of the Silmarils, the destruction of Numenor, Frodo ate them up just like those disgusting guacamole Doritos he would stuff his face with, and Gandalf spun out each tale overjoyed to have a captive audience for the long forgotten truth. When Frodo's time pulled him away, the rooftop sessions grew few and far between, but Gandalf's affection for the special young man had never dimmed.

Gandalf looked at the anguish in Frodo's eyes as he struggled against Boromir's arms. It wrenched his heart, knowing that his actions, both past and present, were the cause. Gandalf never wished to bring grief and pain to Frodo, but it could be no other way since placing the Ring in his palm.

_The Ring._ Not really a bad decision, merely an oversight. He should have known what the little trinket was when he saw Bilbo first use it in the bookstore; should have investigated right away. He didn’t, though, only getting around to pouring through the old texts buried deep within the White City's basements and finding the truth fifteen years later, thus giving Sauron time to gather his strength. _OK, that was a_ bad _decision._

The Ring was Frodo’s now as well as the responsibility and the burden. Sometimes Gandalf cursed his role in the grand scheme of things. Yet, he knew to spare Frodo of this task would mean sacrificing any future the young man might have, and the future of every creature in Arda, for if Sauron had his way, if the Ring returned to its master, no one, including Frodo, would be free. All Gandalf could do now was to aid in Frodo’s success.

Those decisions of his life, incontrovertible be they right or wrong, good or bad, were in the past, and now Gandalf had one last one to make for the future. He looked into the young man’s eyes. _Really not a hard one to make this time._

“Fly, you fools!”

 

 

*****

 

_How could everything have gone so wrong, so fast? I didn’t mean to do it. How was I supposed to know it was down there?_

_There were so many of them, those things, those Outrageously Rude Cunts, that’s what Merry called them, something beyond or below animal, looked like they wanted to eat my balls for breakfast, looked like they did that every day. Well, not mine, but somebody else’s, or if they even ate breakfast because that would be human like, and they were definitely not human. Snarling and snapping, with rotten teeth and sooty mouths, eyes like bugs, or like those fish that live below the sea where there’s no light. Yeah, like that big fish Nemo had to escape from. Or was it his dad? Whatever, they looked like that, 'cause they lived in the dark, the dark of a parking garage in the middle of the Bronx! Of all the damn things, we had to choose the one garage crawling with blind fish things who like to snack on human flesh._

_Oh, God, I was so scared, so scared! Didn’t want to look, but had to. Remember what you said, Dad? ‘Only the unknown can scare you, Son.’ Well, sorry to disappoint you, Daddy, but that only applies to tire swings when you’re seven, ‘cause I looked and I saw the Ringwraiths, the orcs and the thing from the pit and I was still scared shitless._

_I tried, I really tried, but I didn’t know what to do. I saw the bulges in the other’s packs, even Frodo’s was bulging, and Aragorn, well, he was just bulging all over, and didn’t know what it meant until Frodo’s pack started glowing and the arrows began to fly. I tried to be brave, I tried! But, what was I supposed to fight with? My wit? My charm? I had nothing! And they just kept coming, no matter how many arrows Legolas used, or how many time Boromir changed his spent clips. They just kept coming. Hearing was gone, the blasts of Gimli’s shotgun tearing that away, the shrieks as those things died, black blood spurting, staining the walls, drowning the floor, getting on my clothes, my hair, my eyes._

_Didn’t know where to go, what to do. Run, just run, that’s all I could think of, just get the hell out of there. We were just supposed to walk through, ya’ know, just get to the other side and around the traffic jam, to the subway station. Just a simple parking deck, right? Built by Gimli’s grandfather, he said. Nothing different, nothing I haven’t done hundreds of times before. But, those others didn’t have a sleeping nightmare waiting for me._

_I couldn’t do anything, I was useless to myself, to my friends. We were safe, at least for a while, me and Merry, Sam and Frodo, them clinging to each other, me holding Merry while he hurled. Now, I don’t do sick. Never have, never will. The slightest cough, wheeze or sneeze, and I am out the door, jumping in my car and speeding to the next county just to get away from the sick. But, Merry, I couldn’t leave Merry. He was shaking so much he couldn’t walk, and every new breath brought another gag, so I just sat there in the blackness of that fucking garage and held his head while he puked._

_Just wanted to see how far down. How was I supposed to know I’d wake it up? It was just there, calling my name. Never could resist a hole, always had to throw something down just to see how deep it was. I blame my high school science teacher, Mrs. Barrett, she showed us how to figure depth just by listening, aced the test, done it ever since. The Outrageously Rude Cunts were gone for now at least, weapons were being reloaded, Frodo and Sam happy, (relative term, there), balled together in the corner, Merry finally calm. I couldn’t resist. Finding something to throw was the tough part, searching in the dark with only the glow of Aragorn’s flares to keep me from tripping and falling in myself. But, I found something, several somethings, broken pieces of the cinder blocks used to build the place, I guess. They were old and filthy and sharp and just perfect for my science experiment._

_Why was it even there? Nobody could tell me that. Why was it sleeping beneath the streets of the Bronx? Gandalf was pissed, even called me ‘Fool of a Took!’, but I couldn’t understand why the old man was so angry. Sure, we were trapped in the dungeon of some ancient cement structure miles below the surface with no way out except through a mob of those demon-spawned orcs. But, throwing a bunch of stones down a pit that by all rights should not have existed in the first place should have been way down on the Professor’s ‘react badly to’ list. Ready to tell the old fart to get bent, that’s when I heard it._

_Thought if I ignored it, no one else would notice, and it would just go away. Why didn’t it go away? The sound, rumbling under my feet, like standing in the pits at Talladega and waiting for those fifty plus cars, all with tinkered engines and over-the-top horsepower, take that last bank and come racing down the straightaway, pushing and bullying their way around to the next turn and on around the track. That sound could melt into your skin, rattle your hair, and I swear a couple of times I felt my organs shift right inside my chest as those colors went streaking past my eyes. But, it wasn’t Jeff Gordon or Terry Labonte that came out of that pit, it wasn’t even Dale Earnhart. It was fire and flame, melting rock and blast furnace wind._

_He should have run, just like the rest of us, should have just left. He didn’t need to stand against that thing. Gandalf, why? What we thought was a parking garage wasn’t anymore. It came up and the walls came down, the concrete became a cave, a huge ass cavern with stone and rock and darkness never ending. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know, but it was there and it was a way out, so we took it. Running, stumbling, skin burning from the walking fire behind us. Don’t look down as you tear across a stone bridge that looks older then those ruins you saw in Greece last Christmas and about as wide as your typical floor stud, don’t look down cause then you’ll know just how close death is, the end below never in sight. Funny, I didn’t want to throw anything down that big pit. Guess the walking nightmare stalking behind us cured me of that obsession. Frodo went down, arrow or something, wanted to help but couldn’t. Death all around me, below, above, behind. Run, run that’s all I knew. Merry in front, follow his back, the NASCAR rumble a steady beat now. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM The footsteps of the living blaze. ‘Fee, fi, fum, fear, I smell the blood of a Volunteer!’_

_He just stopped, right there on that primeval stonework and waited. Merry reached the other side, Sam crying Frodo’s name, Legolas still bringing down those orcs, sending them screeching into the abyss, Gimli sweating and cursing, Boromir singed and covered in black blood. Couldn’t do anything except bring blistering air into my lungs, listen to it sizzle, searing my flesh. Sam wouldn’t stop, just wouldn’t stop. Even after Frodo came to, kept repeating his name over and over. I screamed for him to shut up, STOP IT, but no sound, nothing only the BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM, now like a heartbeat. The shots of Aragorn and Boromir as they emptied their guns into the pit thing were like sticks drawn against a picket fence, wanted to tell them, too, tell them they were wasting their time. You can’t kill fire, it just eats and consumes everything in its path, dances over wood and cloth and flesh, our flesh._

_He spoke of the Flame of Udun, ordering it back to the shadows. He had a flame of his own, the Secret Flame of Anor, whatever the hell that is. Fight fire with fire, I guess. He pulled a sword, shimmering and clean, a light amid the darkness and struck out at the flame, the flame that had arms and legs and eyes, oh my good lord, those eyes!_

_It was Frodo’s turn to cry endlessly, repeating, struggling in Boromir’s vise like grip. Then Gandalf ceased to be Gandalf, at least the one I knew, the one that could drink you under the table, loved a juicy double entendre, wore mismatched socks, got all misty eyed while watching ‘Touched by an Angel’. That was not the Gandalf that stood out there, stood against the flame, commanding it, telling the thing it couldn’t pass. That Gandalf was authority, that Gandalf was truth, that Gandalf was divine._

_It was all over in a heartbeat. Two BOOM BOOMs and the bridge collapsed, the fire devoured by the pit and Gandalf tumbling in after. He was gone._

_The cries of ‘NO!’ never ceased, Frodo fought against the arms that held him, carrying him out, up and away, the rest of us staggering behind, stumbling out into the sun gasping, shuddering, unbelieving._

_I didn’t mean to do it, I swear. He could have run like the rest of us, he could have escaped. DAMNIT! Why did Gandalf do it? The building before us, I see the clouds, puffy white things, hanging lazily across the blue of the glass. So deep, so deep it seems like water, a crystal clear lake you could fall right into, cool and pure, wash away the smoke and ash and blood, cleanse you of the filth that blackens your body, and I want nothing more than to fall into that blue, to be clean again. But, that would not be true, can never be true again. Oh, god, I’m sorry, so, so sorry, Frodo, I didn’t mean to, but that doesn’t mean shit now, does it? Because you DID do it, Gandalf’s dead, and oh, Frodo, I’m so sorry and it’s all my fault._

*****

 

They had to wait while crossing the Triborough Bridge; no conversation was possible above the roar as those with normal lives drove past in their Corollas, Benzes, and Dodge Ram trucks. What would they have said to each other anyway? The ordinary surrounded them, but they were no longer a part of that world. Each remaining member of the Fellowship became a reality unto himself, living and breathing memories, eight tiny worlds coming to terms in their own minds with horrors past and inevitability of being tried again and found wanting. Even Frodo and Sam, the inseparable, walked alone; still side by side, yet apart. It was not until they reached the end of the bridge, smelling of sweat, smoke and sorrow, covered in black blood and bile, exhausted, soul weary and spent, did they stop, finding rest and shade under the large oaks of Randall’s Island.

“Take five, everybody.”

“He better mean five years.” Merry hit the grass hard, dragging a silent Pippin behind him.

For his resting place, Boromir chose a tree from which to frown his frustration. “And then what? Do you even have a plan, Aragorn, now that Gandalf is…well…”

Somebody finally said it, marking permanence to the awful truth.

_Gandalf is…_

“Goddamnit!”

Sam’s simple headshake begged off any sympathy from the others, his gift of understanding and necessary alone time for Frodo.

_Gandalf is…_

Hot anger could not hold him up very long, though, a dozen steps or so away, before grief’s load proved too much for him to carry.

“GODDAMNIT!”

On his knees, Frodo wept.

_Oh, Gandalf, why, why did you…_

Could have run, could have hung on until help came, not faced the flame alone, a million different choices, a million different endings, some with Quest’s defeat, some with innocents slaughter, all bringing devastation, because that fire reawoken was unquenchable, in his soul Frodo understood that evil unstoppable, and Gandalf’s was to stand and deny, Gandalf’s was to perish so that other would not, Gandalf’s choice the only one.

_But, what the fuck do I do now?_

“What you have always done, my boy, keep calm and carry on.”

The last advice from their last conversation as the Fellowship walked away from the broken down Bill and unknowingly towards their fateful sojourn in the dark.

“Easy for you to say, old man, you’re not the one with a target on his back.” And he could feel eyes, Boromir’s eyes, hitting the bull’s eye. “Wish The Ring had never come to me, wish Bilbo had never found the fucking thing.”

“Wishes are too precious to squander on that which cannot be altered, Frodo.” His twinkle subdued, melancholy. “But, yours is the same as all who are forced to live in troubled days. All any of us can hope for is that, in the end, our lives and deeds find meaning and purpose.”

_Find meaning? Find meaning in the pain? The meaning of being hounded, scared shitless, getting skewered, is that what all this means? The suffering of my friends, giving up my life, everything? The purpose in that? The fucking purpose in your death?_

The answers hung mute and molten around his neck.

_Oh, Gandalf, I’m lost, lost and afraid. How can I do this without you?_

“Frodo?”

A flannel sleeve to mix sooty ash with tears. “Yes, Sam?”

“Sorry to bother, but you really should eat something.”

“Not hungry.”

“Of course not.” Tone kicked sharp his insensitivity. “Drink then, come have some water at least.”

“Alright.” He stood on his own accord, the thought of washing clean his mouth and throat incentive to head back to the others. _But, my heart…_

“I miss him, too, Frodo.”

Sam’s simple words caught, and held Frodo tight.

A visual thing, must be, all the others eating jogged appetite’s memory, and, sharing Sam’s shady patch, Frodo gratefully accepted half a smooshed sandwich, a “Thanks, Sam,” mumbled around peanut butter and jelly.

It really was beautiful here, Randall’s Island a little slice of green in the big grey of New York. One big sports complex, the man engineered park dotted with soccer, softball and rugby fields. _And now, the Fellowship. What’s left of it._ Gimli with his pack pillow, snoring in the sun, Aragorn off to the side in communion with his thoughts, Merry and Pip huddled in private conversation. And Sam – _where I need him_ – right beside on his stomach whistling between his thumbs with blades of grass. Now they really did look homeless, and probably smelled like under the Brooklyn Bridge had been their address for the past week. _Except –_

Legolas.

_How did he do that?_

His path the same as the dirty, grimy, beaten down around him, he was spotless, however, sitting in the Lotus position, finely sculptured face in peaceful repose, looking exactly like –

_Glorfindel!_

Not just the hair and eyes, more the straight and proud, that same expression of holding a secret that the rest of the world's commoners were not worthy of knowing.

_Like Elrond, without the frown. Even the servers at the craptastic party were just like –_

“Frodo, you’re hurt.” Aragorn, ever the observant, caught the wince when Frodo reached for the Doritos.

_Uh oh._

“Just a little sore, that’s all,” center of attention was the last place he wanted to claim, for any number of hidden reasons, “not any worse than everyone else.”

“But, we didn’t take an arrow to the gut and keep walking. But rights, you shouldn’t be alive.”

“It’s nothing, Aragorn, really.” But it was something, something wonderful, and it came with a promise. “Must have just grazed me.”

“Well, then you should have a least a mongo sized bruise.” Sam was back to kicking, this time on his failed short term memory. “Let me see.”

And that promise keeping forced Frodo completely out of character. “No, Sam, please don’t touch me, I’m -”

“What the hell is _that_?” Saucer eyes just stared at his finger poked through the hole in Frodo’s shirt.

“It’s -” an audience of eyes staring at shirt’s hole. _I did try, Uncle._ “It’s -” flannel unbuttoned reluctantly. “A gift from Bilbo.”

Sun’s light prisms rain bowed across the grass. “And you wore it? Voluntarily?”

“Of course I did! It’s special, it’s unique, it’s -”

“Mithril.”

Frodo’s head snapped around. “How’d you know that? Bilbo said this was one of a kind.”

“Don’t doubt that it is, Frodo.” Fascinated, Gimli knelt down in front. “I’ve heard, but I never thought to actually see -” blunt hands reached out for the rare material, “May I?”

_No, this isn’t creepy at all._ “Uh, sure, I guess.”

“Great-Grandfather used to tell tales of grand mines, deep inside the mountains of the Old Country, shafts so deep they went almost to the core of the Earth itself. And what were they searching for?”

“I’m guessing mithril.”

“That’s right, Sam, mithril, the rarest of the rare.” Fingers traced the delicate rings. “All they mined was mithril, nothing else mattered, except digging deeper.” Fingers fluttered across the sparkle. “Nothing else mattered but finding another vein, finding more, always more mith -” Fingers danced, fingers caressed, fingers reaching for –

_The Ring!_

A jerk away, Frodo from the touch, Gimli from his spell.

“Anyway,” a headshake to clear strange memory’s fog, “your uncle’s gift is the very definition of priceless.”

“What happened?” Sam, Frodo’s guardian on hyper vigilant mode, and his question keeping a wary eye on Frodo and engineer alike. “What happened to those mithril miners?”

“Nobody knows, Sam.” He stood with a grunt. “Official story, they delved so far into the mountains the way out was forgotten.”

“That’s twice you’ve surprised me, Frodo.” Aragorn’s face either spoke of begrudging approval or bemused annoyance, and Frodo took both under advisement. “Time to go, people. Let’s pack up and get moving.”

“But, where?” Sam had the trash collected, stowed and both backpacks slung over before Frodo gained far from rested legs. “Some place safe, I hope.”

“It will be for us.” Aragorn from his front of their straggly line position. “Yet, others have found this haven less than comfortable.”

“Then my guess would be at least a Sheraton.” Merry was up, removed socks and shoes for cool grass worshiping back on, and nudging the yet to stir Pippin. “Come on, get up.”

“Pippin, time to go.”

“Time to go, Pippin.” The offered hand to help was Boromir’s. “Got to keep moving.”

Nothing. Just singed curly brown hair atop a dejected lump.

Merry’s answer to perplexed concern a mouthed ‘Gandalf.’

_Oh, no._

“Pippin, look at me.”

“No, Frodo, don’t, please!” Friend’s entreaty refused. “I –I-can’t, just -”

“Look at me, Pip, look at me!” Determined Frodo would not be denied – _I’m hurting, but so is everyone else –_ “Yes, he’s dead. Yes, it sucks.” He dropped to grab heaving shoulders, demanding to be heard. “But, it is not your fault.”

“I’m the one, me, _me_ , I woke that – that -” face twisted with inward directed hatred, “He’s dead because of me!”

“The decision to stand and fight was his alone, Pippin.”

“No! I’m to blame for -”

“You want to place blame somewhere, how about the twisted fucker who created that thing, all those disgusting things?”

Pippin blink-stared up at Boromir, those words a new revelation. “I never, you know, thought about it, you know, like that.”

“Well, think about this, Pippin. Gandalf died for the mission, for our success, for our lives, _all_ our lives. Now, are you going to shit all over that,” the helping hand offered again, “or honor his sacrifice?”

The new and improved Boromir, in Frodo’s eyes at least – _maybe he can be trusted after all –_ and Sam’s going by his surprised expression, Merry, too, a little hero worship creeping into his smile, hauled the completely won over Pippin to his feet. “OK, unless you guys want to be left here, get your assess in gear. _Now._ ” And the reverted back to surly stomped away.

“Frodo, I know he, Gandalf, he was, I’m sorry, so, so sorry.”

“Me, too, Pip, me, too.” The hug of two friends became three, Merry wrapping up Pippin from behind. A supportive hand to Frodo’s shoulder on the edge of Sam’s too much PDA comfort zone.

“Heads up.” Legolas’ warning watched a green security marked truck roll by…stop…reverse roll back. “Too late.”

The window slid down. “What have we here, escapees from a halfway house?” Condescending glare sized up Gimli. “Or perhaps Riker’s.”

_Glorfindel? Again?_

The hair, the eyes, snooty personified, déjà vu all over again. _Brothers, cousins?_ And when Legolas joined the Aragorn losing argument at truck’s window – _Clones, got to be cl –_

_“Frodo Baggins.”_

_OK, that’s new._

Not a voice in Frodo’s head, no they were been there, done that. Self-doubt, second guessing, he’d been listening to that babble all his life. Even The Ring’s cajoling monologue, though silent since the parking garage, had become common place.

_“Frodo Baggins, why are you here?”_

And this voice was dangerous.

Legolas, the doppelganger diplomat, concluded the truck window conversation in three sentences. “Everybody in the back,” shotgun his call this ride.

“Charming place if this is their guest shuttle.” Gimli’s climb up inelegant at best.

“Can’t be worse than where we’ve been.” Sam scrambled up to claim the bed’s back corner. “I’m willing to take anything right about now.”

Next up, Frodo, a lithe jump into the –

_“You bring great evil, Frodo Baggins.”_

“No shit.”

“What?”

_“What you carry I have feared throughout the ages, and now you bring it to my doorstep.”_

“Nothing, Sam,” a spectacular lie, “just tired, that’s all.”

Pulling Frodo into his arms, Sam mothered. “Then lean on me a while and rest your eyes.”

Frodo did as he was told and found heaven snuggled up against Sam’s broad chest. _No need to worry. So what if I now have one more person in my head telling me I’m the harbinger of doom? Come on in, the more the merrier! All I want now is a shower and to sleep for a week. In a bed. A soft bed. A soft, large bed._ He burrowed deeper into strong arms. _Ok, all I want is a shower and to spend a week in bed with Sam. Sure we’ll get around to sleeping at some point._

“Be there in a moment. Hang on, everyone.”

“Sorry to be repetitive here, guys, but just where -” Boromir shifted his legs.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, Merry. Just where the -” Boromir moved his shoulders.

“Watch it!”

“Sorry, Gimli. Just where the hell -” Boromir lifted his arms.

“Quit that!”

“Sorry, Sam.” Boromir stayed still. “Our destination?” For him, crammed into a small truck bed with six other men, some even short, they could not arrive fast enough.

Aragorn sat in the front of the bed, arms resting on the knees of his bent legs, head leaning back on the window. The wind had caught his hair, blowing it about his face, the sensation obviously pleasing for a faint smile hinted at the corners of his mouth. He answered Boromir’s question without opening his eyes. “A place where we will find peace, safety and solace for our weary minds and bodies.”

“As long as it has hot tubs.” Merry’s not quite a joke.

“Thinking not so much.”As the truck pulled into the circular driveway, Pip pointed out their evening accommodations. “Cold baths, maybe.”

The Manhattan Psychiatric Institute.

_Welcome back, Frodo Baggins._


	11. Chapter Eleven

**The Ring in New York**

Chapter Eleven

Frodo knew therapy. Knew the smells of old leather and leading questions, of spicy potpourri and promises. He knew the sight of years old magazines on the table and cheap knock-off prints on the wall. He knew the sounds of overly cheery receptionists and under educated therapists. _And why do you say that, Frodo? Let’s explore those ideas, Frodo. Maybe you should get past that, Frodo. Anger management problems. Low self-esteem. Abandonment issues. Wet dreams. Despair. Rage. Fear._ Frodo knew therapy. And he hated it.

Each step brought the memories back. _There must be something wrong with him. He’s not eating, sleeping, talking. That’s not normal._ He’s _not normal._

At the apples and cinnamon the first door closed, Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers’ and another slammed, when he heard the bright “Hello!” the last one shut tightly, locks slipped into place, lights turned out, all with practiced ease. He had learned to play the therapy game, and he closed himself down.

Gimli was complaining loudly about how shrinks get into your mind, play with your thoughts, twist them, scramble things, and there was no way he was going to allow that to happen.

_Suit yourself, Hard and Fast, rage against the machine as much as you want. But, I’ve got my own way of protecting myself. Give them what they want, say what you think they want to hear, cry on cue, have a scheduled breakthrough, laugh and look relieved that yet another problem has been lifted from your troubled mind and take your lollipop and go back home. Ignore the hurtful glances and snide comments from cousins, just disappear into your room, under your covers. But, don’t ever let them hear you cry, ‘cause the comments will start again, the looks will start again, the late night arguments over the kitchen table about he's only a distant relative, more trouble than he's worth,  and it’s back to the leather and the empty smiles, the questions about inner motivations, again and again until all you want to do is scream your throat raw telling those morons that they’re the ones who are fucked in the head, they should be the ones on the couch, playing word association, finding their happy place, made to relive their parents death. But, you don’t because if you do it will mean another set of cousins to get used to, another set of rules to learn, another school to feel awkward in, another pillow to dampen with your tears. So I kept my mind shut, nodded in all the right places, smiled stupid just like the receptionist and those lollipops kept coming and finally so did the escape of the dark in my room, the dark in my mind, the nothing of my own private world._

Frodo would have been fine if it had been Dr. Taylor, the one with the funny voice who always talked like he was on Valium. Or Dr. Walsh whom he could make cry simply by baiting his eyelashes. Frodo would have wiped the floor with them had those fakes walked through the doors. But, it wasn’t.

_It was her_.

The voice, the one inside his head, and even though all his doors were closed tight, all the locks clicked, windows shut, blinds drawn, towels shoved into cracks, she found her way through his tried and true defenses.

_"Welcome, Frodo Baggins."_

Her eyes met each member, speaking of introductions and welcome. Those lips may have been saying innocuous things like, “My name is Doctor Galadriel Noldor, and this is my husband, Celeborn. We are the administrators of this facility,” but Frodo heard other words, other conversations, the ones carried on underneath.

_"Meriadoc Brandybuck, you who believe that your future is set, personal choice a farce, believe that leadership belongs to those who’ve had the misfortune of being born into the right family. Remember a leader is alone unless he can inspire others to follow."_

_"Peregrin Took, do not give into your shame. Do not allow it to keep you in the shadows. There is a vast difference between acting childish and living life with child-like fancy. Do not allow guilt swallow the one for a deed caused by the other."_

She seemed truly stunned by the loss of Gandalf, speaking of him with warmth in her eyes, and Frodo learned the name of the creature that took his mentor’s life: a Balrog, an ancient creature forged by the original evil.

_"Gimli O'Gloin, you deal with the tangible, create practical things that can be touched and seen. Do not close your mind to other possibilities, though, those of the heart and of the soul, for through them you may just build your greatest joy."_

_"Legolas Greenleaf, brethren and friend. You walk amongst the others as one of them, yet hold yourself above. To always stay apart you may miss that which is most important to you."_

Rings of light sparkled in pale blue ice and she, too, possessed the corn silk tresses, falling about regal shoulders in perfect waves, framing a face sweet and dangerous. It all made Frodo feel small and plain. He should have been surprised that she knew all: Sauron, the Ring, the Quest. He should have been, but he wasn’t. He had come to the conclusion, round about the meeting in Elrond’s conference room, that of all people involved, he, the Ringbearer, was the least informed. Did not instill confidence.

_"Boromir Steward, commitment to one’s homeland is admirable. However, do not allow pride to blind you to other oaths that you have sworn. Those who believe promises whispered in the dark are doomed to return to those same shadows."_

_"Samwise Gamgee, your loyalty knows no bounds, your heart no limits. Though Frodo carries the burden, there will come a time when you may be called upon to shoulder it all if this Quest is to succeed. Do not fail him, Samwise. You are his greatest source of strength."_

For all of Gimli’s protestations, he stood transfixed, gawking like a lovesick teenager. Frodo wondered why Celeborn didn’t haul off and smack that strip club grin off the man’s face. _It was his wife being drooled over, for pity’s sake. Probably grown accustomed to it, though._ In their line of work patient’s attachment to their doctors is a fine line all therapists must walk. Not that he would personally have any experience in that area, he had just read it in a magazine in the waiting room. Even she had issues of Good Housekeeping dating from 2006.

_“Aragorn Dunedain, you have spent your life hiding behind duty in self-proclaimed exile. Do not shy away from your birthright. Your duty lies there, as well. Look at those around you, they have accepted you, they will follow you, they believe in you. When will you allow yourself to do the same?”_

Food, rest and clean sheets in the private section of the Institute were accepted almost before the words left Celeborn’s mouth. Haldir, the snooty guy from the security truck - and good friend to Legolas, apparently by their ease together - was tasked to show the Fellowship to their rooms. The uniquely shaped clock on her desk, (a golden tree with the time displayed in leaf shaped numerals), told Frodo it was only 6 PM. His companions' body language screamed something else entirely. Even Pip, whose usual exuberance required Merry to carry duct tape to keep his friend in one spot for longer than a cellular minute, stumbled out the office door, his head finally finding Merry’s shoulder. Sam dragged his feet as well as their packs, and Boromir a shuffling hulk that would certainly fail a sobriety test, his straight line crossing Frodo's repeatedly.

"Sorry."

"That's OK." Even though it wasn't - _Can he be trusted?_ – and on his back a barrel of exhaustion monkeys cavorted, Frodo's step still bounced with unpunished naughty child glee.

_Nothing. She said nothing._

Galadriel had spoken to everyone in the group, spared nothing, had shown them their true selves, holding a mirror up just in case they missed something while peering into those places denied even by the subconscious.

_Everyone, but me._

He scrunched shoulders down, lowering head to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, slipped between Gimli and Aragorn, this time being diminutive working in his favor. _Yes! Score one for the –_

_"Ringbearer"_

He stopped, grabbing on to a naugahyde wing back chair that must be given to every psychology grad along with their diplomas for support. _Here it comes. Here's where she calls it, tells the truth, about the mistake, the horrible mistake made in Rivendell, the horrible mistake of me, how I'm unfit, unprepared, unbalanced, unworthy to carry the –_

_"Ringbearer, welcome. May you find peace of both spirit and body while you linger here."_

Then she was gone.

He opened one eye. _That was it? That’s all she’s gonna’ say to me?_ The other eye opened. The waiting room was empty.

“Mr. Baggins?”

A girly scream. _Shit, forgot about the receptionist._

“Is everything OK? Do you need me to call - "

“I’m fine!” Shout halting her move towards the phone. “Just fine, thank you. Which way to the, uh…?”

She pointed to the door.

“Thank you, very much. Just tired, long day, you know,” babbling lunged for the door and escape, “Thank you again.”

Running to catch up, Frodo held on to the hope of finding that offered peace by his nail bitten nubs. He knew, however, as long as they remained here, no matter what activity occupied him, some part of his mind would be waiting for that sound.

_The other dropping shoe._

 

 

*****

 

"…and in local news tonight, the collapse of the 57th street parking deck remains a mystery. Engineers had certified it structurally sound last year, however, earlier today the deck, built originally in 1956, fell to the ground in a puff of grey smoke. Search and rescue crews have reported no casualties. Property damages have yet to be assessed. The wreckage is causing major traffic headaches and authorities say the clean-up could take –"

“There! Right there!” Merry jumped up from the couch and poked a finger at the TV. “It’s the same guy, I’m sure of it!”

“Who? Which guy?” Pip's mouth full of pizza.

“This guy!” Merry repeated, but by now the image had changed and he was pointing to Gov. Cuomo’s ear. “Damn!” He threw himself back down beside Pip. “He was there!”

“Maybe it’s coincidence, Merry. Maybe it’s someone who just looked like the guy. Besides, everything happened so fast, how can you be sure of what you saw?” Sam lounged across the other couch in Frodo’s suite, trailing his fingers through short dark hair.

Frodo, eyes closed, head resting in Sam's lap, paid little attention to the TV or conversation. Instead, thick crust hamburger and black olive pizza sat digesting in his stomach. Skin cleansed with fresh smelling botanicals and surrounded by soft cotton and denim, body cradled in leather cushions, his mind moved forward to the time when Merry and Pip left, and he and Sam would be alone so he could rid his body of the soft cotton and denim, and plaster fresh smelling skin down into leather cushions and moan Sam’s name while he came. A bit miffed that Merry had even brought the subject up; he would now be required to speak thus taking his concentration from how his body tingled with each stroke of Sam’s fingers. “That’s probably Gollum. He’s following the Ring.”

Pip soon recovered from his choking fit. “Gollum? You mean the guy? Bilbo’s guy?”

“Yes, that’s Bilbo’s Ring guy." Eyes still resolutely closed.

“Damn! What’s he doing in New York? Following us?”

“Us, Pip? Wrong pronoun.” Merry teased, “I knew I recognized him! The subway for sure, the diner maybe, now he was there at the parking deck.”

“Fucking shame he didn’t go down with the concrete,” Sam's other hand now lightly massaging Frodo’s shoulder, “Should have died a long time ago, the villain.”

_I said exactly the same thing, Sam._ The tug of memory sweet, the loss still sharp.

“Somebody should have just put him out of his misery, Gandalf. The cops, his freak friends, Bilbo even. The whole story’s pathetic, he’s pathetic.”

They had left Bilbo napping in his room, and sought privacy in Rivendell’s gardens. Tiny bells danced on the wind, teasing in and around, playing hide and seek with the listener, and always the sound of singing, mournful longing. Under an arbor seemingly spun out of silk, Frodo had heard Gollum’s tale.

“And who are you to decide that, mmmm, Frodo? Do you possess the knowledge to be judge, jury and executioner, meting out justice because you can see straight to every man’s heart?”

“Well, no, but -”

“Bilbo did not harm Gollum because it was the right thing to do.”

The leaf in Frodo’s hand fell at his feet, picked clean. He yanked for another and began again. “We’ll wait and see on that one.”

“Gollum’s life is still bound up with the Ring, I fear. He may yet play a part before this whole thing is over.”

“For good or bad, Gandalf? Good or bad?”

“I don’t know that, Frodo,” a sighed reply, “I just don’t know.”

Interrupted then by one with a gentle reminder of the cocktail party that evening, Frodo and Gandalf had parted ways, and never spoke of Gollum again, the events moving too swiftly, dragging Frodo along, and all he had been able to do since was scratch his way to the surface from time to time to gasp for air.

“He wants the Ring back? And just how does he plan to do that?” Pip snagged the last piece of pepperoni, receiving a pillow to the head from Merry because, “Does he really think he can get to you when he’s got Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli AND his shotgun to get through first?”

"And you guys," he looked backwards over his head at the other couch, "You wouldn't protect me from Gollum's evil clutches?"

"Well, yes, of course we would, Frodo, but strictly in an advisory capacity."

"Excuse me?"

Corporate Merry explained. “For value based planning, synergies of diversification my recommendation. Battle front management in place, therefore redundancy of personnel an inefficient allocation of resources." A wink for Frodo. "Am I correct, Mr. Took?”

“Yes, Mr. Brandybuck. Allocation of redundant synergies, definitely."

Frodo's smile shared the joke. "What about you, Sam," he turned his question upward, "What would you do if Gollum came after The Ring?"

"Kill him."

No shared funny to be had there.

“Well, maybe he plans to get you alone." A Merry scenario.

_Sam is the only one who will be doing that._

“Put you in a compromising position.”

_That’d be Sam again._

"Incapacitate you."

"Overpower you."

“Take it by force.”

_Three for –_

Frodo’s eyes snapped open. _Well, well, what have we here?_ His head suddenly had less room on Sam’s lap than before. From his vantage point, he watched Sam’s chest rise and fall in short, shallow breaths, pink tongue dart out to lick dry lips, the gripping hand sweating through to skin.

_Why, Samwise Gamgee, still waters running with a little bondage, perhaps?_

"You'd be defenseless."

"Helpless."

"At the mercy of – Merry?" Staring straight ahead, Pip white knuckled the pillow in his lap.

"Yes, Pippin?" Staring straight ahead, sweat mixed with pizza grease on Merry's upper lip.

"I'm thinking 'bout calling it a night. You?"

"Yeah, sounds good to me."

"Thank you for a lovely evening."

"Yeah, sounds good to me."

"Right then, let's have a bit of a lie down, shall we?"

They rose in unison, walked to the door in unison, farewell's bid in perfect chorus. "Night, Frodo, Night, Sam."

"Sweet dreams, you guys." The good host seeing them to and out the door. "Yeah, like there'll be any sleep going on over -"

BANG!

Wall shuddered, two bodies worth knocking against from the hall.

_Who knew an ugly, bald dude would be such an effective aphrodisiac?_

Returning to the suite’s sitting room, Frodo found it empty, devoid of pizza boxes, beer bottles, and a brief glimpse of Sam’s blue and tan checked button down disappearing into the kitchen. “Sam Gamgee, you don’t have to do that, you know.” A huge déjà vu hit Frodo as he leaned in the doorway. Aware of the flow of Sam’s muscles, the power restrained within those simple moves, the aromas of a lovingly prepared meal merging with the scent that was Sam’s own: Suave mousse, Big Red gum, and sweat. Nonsense sounds, snatches of unnamed and private tunes hummed as work occupied his attention. The whole scenario was all too familiar to Frodo. _How many times have I done this?_ Only tonight Frodo would not be forced to sit in the easy chair stealing glances over homework, memorizing the way Sam’s eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed at _Community_ , or light up to their brightest green when the Yankees snagged yet another double play. This evening he would not have to endure the inevitable goodnights and watch Sam disappear down the hallway, walking into a room that was not Frodo’s, climbing into a bed that was not Frodo’s, slipping into a dream that Frodo had no right to claim. Tonight Frodo would not face his own sparse room with its silent space, empty bed and cold sheets. No, tonight Frodo would not do without; he would have Sam in his bed, his arms, his life. Both heart and groin swelled at the prospect.

“No point in leaving it ‘til tomorrow,” Sam was crushing the pizza boxes in half and making Frodo squirm in anticipation, “Just don’t like the look of day old pizza. Cold cheese reminds me of cheap plastic, and I know I put it in my stomach the night before.”

“Don’t they have people to do this sort of thing?” Frodo couldn’t stand the distance between them anymore and moved into the kitchen helping the clean-up by throwing used paper plates and napkins into the trashcan.

“This isn’t a hotel, Frodo.”

_I fucking know!_ Anger flared at the reminder. _It's a goddamn -_  First childhood pain memories into images of Galadriel, then the sound he knew would - _Don’t! Stop it!_ _Not tonight. Tonight it's –_ the one standing at the sink, hands plunged into soapy water, Frodo's resistance futile.

“What the hell?” Suds dripped off Sam's nose.

“Watch out there, Sam,” Frodo teased as he piled another glob of the Rain Fresh Dawn bubbles onto the top of Sam’s head. “Don’t make a mess now. You’d just have to clean it up later.”

A full ten seconds to register that Sam was showering him with the sink’s spray nozzle, impish grin in place.

“Guess that would be mine to clean up, too.”

Well, so audacious a move could not go unanswered. _Want’s to play hardball, huh?_ Frodo was patient, he could wait, wait and dribble on the stone tiles at his feet, oh, so patiently wait until Sam’s attention returned to the dirty dishes. He would know when the time was right. Too soon and it would be cold water spray again. Too late and Sam may move out of range. Neither was acceptable. The silverware clean and set out to dry, Sam scarcely turned his head to the right, and – _Now!_ Beer mug snatched, plunged into dishwater, overturned on Sam’s head, Frodo out.

“Son of a bitch!”

The suite small and Sam _very_ determined, so Frodo only made it to the sitting room before he was tackled. The tickling commenced immediately.

“Stop! Stop, Sam!” Frodo’s voice coming out in jerks amid squeaky giggles, “Enough!”

Sam sat back and surveyed his handiwork. Frodo was splayed beneath him, tears streaming, cheeks flushed a deep pink, mouth open and panting for air. He also observed nipples nudging wet cotton upwards and the bulge under his thigh spoke to him invitingly. _We should do the dishes together more often._ “And tell me, who’s gonna’ clean up that mess in there now?”

Pushing his hips up in a provocative manner, Sam’s slight twitch had Frodo doing it again. “That’d be you, Gamgee.”

The callused tip of Sam’s index finger toyed with Frodo’s bottom lip. “And why is it automatically me that has to do the cleaning? You had a hand in it, too.”

Frodo answered with teeth biting down on Sam’s digit. “Several reasons, actually.” He sucked between enumerations. “One: Most of the mess was caused by you and the spray thingy. Two,” the finger went in deeper, “You are so go with your hands.”

“And the third?”

Frodo raised his head and swallowed Sam’s entire finger, pulling back slowly, sucking deeply, until it fell out from his lips with a soggy pop. “Third, my dear Sam, is that I believe I have waited long enough to see you on your knees.”

Tickling renewed with a vengeance.

“Enough, enough! Not fair! You know all the right places!”

Sam instantly demonstrated that he did indeed know all the right places by scattering kisses up the left side of Frodo’s neck and finding that spot just below the ear.

“Oh, Sam! That feels, feels so good, so good!”

His hands were not idle, however, while mouth, tongue and teeth traveled to the next right spot at the junction of neck and collarbone. Those hands famed in kitchen and bookstore, were busily working to peel off the wet t-shirt thus giving him access to more right spots.

“Oh, Sam! That feels, feels so good!”

The t-shirt a sodden lump at Frodo’s head, Sam quickly moved to hit the right places of taut torso and creamy skin. The already erect nipple yielded to Sam’s touch as he swept both palm and tongue over receptive skin. As his mouth moved across chest and belly, the right places shown copious attention, leaving little red bites, marking their position, in the chance that he would like to revisit them at a later time. The buttons of the jeans fell prey to Sam’s skilled fingers, finding the way down underneath denim and cotton to brush heated flesh.

“Oh, Sam! That feels, feels so…”

Having hit the high points of Frodo’s upper body, the lower half became Sam’s main focus. Pausing only to place Frodo’s arms above his head, and out of the way, “Hands off the hair,” Sam knelt between quivering thighs. Slim hips, and the jeans removal maneuver went off without a hitch and soon Frodo was completely naked, writhing and aching, aroused and wanton, begging to be touched.

“Oh, Sam, that feels…”

The thighs contained right places, also, and no time lost in the addressing. Left thigh moistened with licks and nibbles, at the same time the right thigh enjoyed a deep massage, thumb trailing ever upward. Each leg received the same attention, as did the valley where leg becomes groin. Actually, that spot received quite a bit of attention, tongue tracing the entire crease.

“Oh, Sam, that…”

Twice.

“Oh, Sam that…”

The right place behind could only be attended to by Sam’s hand considering their position: flat on the sitting room floor which was part of a suite of rooms in the private section of the director of the Manhattan Psychiatric Institute with no locks on the doors.

_No staff house calls right now, please._

And that same tongue that had started at the base of the ear, traveled down luminescent skin, perked up both nipples, teased into navel and hips, worshiped inner thighs, arrived at the rightest place of all - _perfection -_ moseying up the underside, then down again on the other, stopping only to briefly push into the slit at the top.

“Oh, Sam…”

That identical path followed several times, the pace quickening as hips began to push upwards, the burning flesh exhaustively covered with Sam’s loving attention.

“Oh, Saaaaammmm….”

Measuring his breathing, Sam opened his mouth - _don't gag, don't fucking -_  and swallowed whole, straight down to nose tickling dark curls.

“Oh….oh…Sammmmmmmmmmmmmm!”

Sam’s skilled hands held bucking hips to the carpet while he sucked in his cheeks, drawing his head in the other direction, tongue and teeth enjoying the ride up by nibbling and teasing as they went. He stole a glance at Frodo - body, blanketed by a slick sheen, muscles straining to hold on to the sweet sensations as long as possible - appeared to glow under the low wattage of the Institute’s lamps. Hair spikey in places, plastered down in others, wreathed a face open and enraptured. Looking at Frodo’s half closed eyes and parted rosy lips, Sam could take pride in a job well done. _Only it’s not done properly yet._

“Oh…Sa…”

Sam’s nose returned to the curls repeatedly, each visit shorter than the one before, still deep, still hard, but briefer and briefer as the pace grew. Tongue twisted wildly, sneaking around the base, drifting through the opening, smoothing along engorged flesh. The frenzied wails of euphoria were matched only by the thrusts of Sam’s mouth.

“OH……OH…..OH….SSSSSSAAAAAAMMMMMM!!!”

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Thus says Newton’s Third Law of Motion. The action of Sam’s mouth and tongue giving the blow job of the year caused Frodo to nearly bend in half when he climaxed, Sam swallowing it all, and then disintegrating to a washed out shell on the floor until each ounce of bliss had finished with him.

“Oh, sweet Jesus…Sam.”

When Frodo remembered to breathe and eyesight was rediscovered, he realized Sam was holding his wrung out body, gently stroking the tiny knots out of his hair thrashing had tangled, and the first question on Frodo’s lips – “We never…have you ever…where the fuck did you learn to do that?”

Sam smiled shyly. “I do work in a bookstore after all, Frodo.”

“So, you did research on, learned all about, because an opportunity someday, perhaps, just maybe, _might_ -” Frodo and his giggle shot up to hug. “Oh, Sam, you are a -”

The Ring fell between them.

A Sam blink, a cloud appeared. “This is no place for you to be sprawled out like this, Frodo.” He jumped up, to gather the discarded clothing.

“OK, Sam,” crawl, chair, and coffee table helped him regain his feet, “Just where would be proper for me to sprawl?”

Sam refused to take the bait. “You should be asleep. Don’t know what Aragorn wants to do tomorrow. Maybe he plans to leave. If so, a good night’s sleep is called for here.” He disappeared into the bedroom and by the time Frodo managed to wobble down the hallway, he had the bed turned down and hospital issued PJs laid out.

Institutional nightwear ignored, Frodo plopped down on the bed, a large yawn stretching. “Not tired, Sam.”

His entrance from the bathroom caught the last of it. “Sure you’re not. Under the covers. Go to sleep.”

“Think we have a bit of unfinished business, Sam.”

Sexy voice stopped busy bee Sam dead. He wasn’t doing anything important really, just wanted to keep busy until Frodo went to sleep. Then he would take care of his problem without depriving his friend of much needed rest. But, avoidance plan would not work if Frodo continued to – _talk like that, look like that, lounge on the bed like_ \- Frodo turned on his side, propped up on one elbow, knee bent, giving Sam the Full Monty – **_that._** “You need to sleep, Frodo.”

Frodo chuckled and pointed. “And you need to get bigger sweatpants, Sam, if you want to convince me that you’re not so horny you could pop right there if the AC kicked on.”

Sam blushed hotly and went back to doing nothing. “Go to sleep, Frodo.”

“I refuse to enter into a nudum pactum, Sam.” Everyday voice again. But, still not under the covers, though.

“A what?”

“Nudum pactum, a naked contract.”

“Well, you’re certainly dressed for it.”

“Nudum pactum, that’s an agreement without compensation. Illegal in this country.”

“Wasn’t aware we had signed a contract, Frodo.”

“Well, not a written contract, Sam.” Frodo had bunched the pillows up at the headboard, leaned against them, legs crossed before, hand idling on the chain, “but, considering what just happened in the sitting room, I would say we now have an oral one.”

“And what kind of contract did I _orally_ agree to?”

“Reciprocal.” Frodo gave him the look that could melt butter, the titanium struts of the Lake Ponchtrain Bridge and the heart of the staunchest right wing conservative. It had a similar effect on Sam. “A contract of reciprocity.”

“Reciprocity,” Sam repeated, walking to the bedside, “Reciprocity.” He liked the sound of that word; the way it tripped across his teeth and lips just the way Frodo’s cock had done only a few minutes before.

“Frodo and Sam, the parties have entered into a mutual agreement in which both will benefit equally.” Reaching out one hand, Frodo grabbed Sam through his sweatpants. “And I’m afraid you are precariously close to breach of contract, Sam.”

Unable to resist, Sam placed his hand over Frodo’s, pushing both down harder. “How’d you figure that?”

“Well,” removed hand caused Sam to whimper. “I have allowed the party of the second part free and uninhibited access to all the party of the first part’s parts.” The chain wound around his finger, released, then wound again, released, then wound again. “The reciprocity clause of our oral contract demands both inducements, heretofore known as considerations, and benefits be provided following the receipt of said considerations by the party of the second part from the party of the first part in words and/or in deeds. In addition, the party of the first part is entitled to considerations equal to those provided by the party of the second part. Should further considerations be needed, the aforementioned clause may be renegotiated until a time when a mutual agreement is entered into by both parties, which may include more, but no less than the number of considerations enumerated with the original clause and contract.”

Even if Sam had been completely clear headed - _Frodo naked, Frodo Naked, FRODO NAKED -_ he would have still been lost at the ‘party of the first part’s parts.’ “Huh?”

Frodo smiled wickedly. “Strip, Sam.”

_Chapter Seven: How to Drive Your Lover Wild With Desire: The Strip Tease Slowly undressing while your lover watches can be very sensual and erotic if done with care and a sense of fun. Never forget that men are visual creatures, and enjoy the idea of a lover bearing all for their pleasure. The first step is to set the mood: low lights, scented candles, soft music are just a few of the preparations you can use to put both you and your lover in the proper mood. If you decide to have music, start by moving your hips in time, never loosing eye contact. This lets your lover know that this is all for -_

“Fuck that!”

Sweatpants down and off, shirt flying through the air all in the space of two quickened heartbeats. When their mouths touched, big carpet spark. Frodo jerked up, arms wrapping around Sam’s back, drawing him in. Tongues met mutually, then began to fight for supremacy, both aiming to be the first to taste it all. Balanced on elbows, Sam was free to add his weight to Frodo’s body, pushing down into the mattress. Cursing the need to breath, Frodo tore his mouth away only to attack the stubbly cheeks, running his fingers through sun kissed brown curls. Cheeks and chin explored, his mouth desired sweeter flesh, finding it on Sam’s throat. The noise elicited when Frodo licked the hollow there sent a shiver through his already heated body.

“Frodo, don’t stop.” Bringing his knees up a bit further on the outside of Frodo’s thighs, Sam brought straining flesh together. “Frodo, my love.”

Nearly halfway there, Frodo pulled Sam’s body fully down on top of his, burying his lips in Sam’s. “Sam, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” Sam lisped out while suckling Frodo’s bottom lip. Skin melting against skin, Sam believed in the impossible; he was now more aroused then when he had watched the writhing body beneath him shriek and climax under his touch. Urgent hands were pressing in the flesh of his butt, begging for a rhythm to begin. Ready to comply, one downward thrust and he noticed something biting into him and it wasn’t Frodo. Pushing back up onto hands and knees, it was lying there on Frodo’s heaving chest, sparkling with the sweat made by their passion. And that bothered him to no end.

“Sam? What’s wrong? What is it?”

He pointed. “That, that’s the problem. Never been between us before.”

Frodo looked down his nose. “And that bothers you?”

“Hell, yes!” Sam miffed that question even asked. “Just take it off and then we can continue.” To give punch to his proposal, Sam ran his tongue along Frodo’s jaw line, puffing softly in his ear. “Come on, Frodo, take it off.”

Silence.

“Frodo?” Sam searched the unfocused blue beneath him. Chain wound, released, wound, released, wound - “Frodo!” Blue snapped back. “The Ring?”

The tiniest hint of annoyance flashed, and then disappeared to become erotically evil. “Reciprocity, Sam. That’s the name of the game tonight.” Pushing with all his might, Frodo flipped over, so that he was the one on top. Sam leaned up to drag Frodo back to his mouth, but he managed to dodge Sam’s eager hands. “You’ve had your turn, now it’s mine.”

A pillow was shoved up under Sam’s hips, legs jammed almost uncomfortably apart, with Frodo kneeling between them before protest found voice. With hooded eyes, Frodo looked down at the prize, glistening in anticipation. Feathery fingers grazed up redden flesh and eyelashes fluttered up, giving a look of unbridled lust swimming in smoky blue.

“Want you to listen to me, Sam. Listen to what I say.”

Sam could do nothing else. Those eyes held him immobile, that voice, husky and commanding, pinned him to the mattress.

“I’m going to suck your cock now, Sam, suck you dry. Are you listening?”

He was and nodded his head to show the enchanting creature teasing his flesh that he had him at suck.

“Keep your eyes open, Sam. Don’t close them. Ever.”

That face, so young, so beautiful. Swollen and rosy lips curled into a snarl and a raw sound wrenched from Sam’s throat when his cock went from lonely and dry to engulfed and Frodo spit dripping in seconds flat.

“Eyes open!”

Sam received a tiny bite on the head, reminding him he must be good and do what he was told.

“So big, so big, Sam. Fills me. My mouth, my throat.” Pristine cheeks hollowed out as a velvet mouth drew in and up, pulling Sam’s hips off the mattress. “Like that, Sam? My mouth on you?"

Sam nodded again weakly. So hard to concentrate.

“Like it, too. Taste so good.”

Sam blinked. He hoped that was OK. Closed for only a brief moment, he opened them to view perfection draped between his legs. A new and forceful rush of desire skipped through his body, coming to fruition as low guttural moans.

“You want it hard, Sam?”

A sick puling sound was the only response he could give his lover for a hand had slipped down to squeeze his balls.

“Hard and fast, Sam?”

A buzz tickled Sam’s skin when Frodo laughed at his own joke, and soon the free hand was needed to hold the bucking body on the bed in place.

“Eyes open, Sam.”

Sam was ashamed. His eyes had indeed closed. He had not followed instructions. He wanted to please, he wanted to be good, he wanted the exquisite pleasure pain to never end.

“Know what I’m doing now, Sam? Watch me, watch me closely.”

He did, enthralled as a circle formed with finger and thumb, just like a ring, slipped over his cock, aiding the velvet mouth in bringing him to the edge. Saliva and pre-ejaculate seeped over his groin moistening dark curls, flesh, hand, legs, sheets. Absent of thought, hips beseeched the creature for more; more mouth, more tongue, more hand, more _more._

“See this, Sam? This is going inside you. My finger, inside you.”

The quaking body on the bed did not know who this Sam person was; his entire world focused on his dick and the exquisite torture as both hands and mouth moving in tandem, inside and out, up and down, filling him, squeezing him, wringing out every last drop of self-control.

“Hot, Sam, so hot and tight.”

The finger rocked back and forth aided by the streaming wetness, fist balled around his cock, the sound a litany of slick palm and inarticulate moans.

“That’s me inside you, Sam. Frodo inside of his Sam.”

_Hold on for just one more thrust, one more suck, one more brush, one more lick._

“Come for me, Sam. Open your eyes and watch, watch as you come in my mouth.”

_Frodo. My Frodo. The hand, mouth, finger, my Frodo._

“Now, Sam, now!”

The alarm rang clear and true as Sam burst forth, sending screams of his love through the room. "GODDAMN!" Always the good boy, Sam followed instructions exactly, showering Frodo, his own belly, the sheets, and a corner of the headboard. “MY Frodo!”

Only remotely aware of anything outside the ringing in his ears, Sam did eventual notice loving hands had cleaned up the mess made on the sheets and covered him with a cool sheet. A lithe and warm body pressed against his side, tugging at the hair on his chest. “ _My_ Frodo.”

The spoons reversed, Frodo shushing and comforting. “Go to sleep, Sam. Hush now, go to sleep.”

“My…” the combined scents of their love, entwined legs, clasped hands, all a lullaby to sooth passage into – “we never…have you ever…where the fuck did you learn that?”

“My uncle _owns_ that bookstore, remember?”

 

 


	12. Chapter Twelve

“NO!”

Broken rocks, ash and smoke, pitiable screams.

_Fear._

Whips searing flesh, splinters digging, fists, boots and laughing.

_Pain._

Rancid stench, stifling hot, the cold humiliation of helplessness, covered in the stink of urine, no strength to resist.

“Please, god, no!”

The floor hit hard, rising up to pound his naked form as he scratched for a way out, the nebulous terror chasing still from his slumber.

_I am nothing._

Cowering, puling, striped of dignity, humanity, only shame, agony, again and again and forever, abandoned by all to face The Eye’s punishment.

_I am alone._

Fist shoved deep to silence mewling – _quiet, quiet! Must be, no noise, no sound, quiet! –_ rocking, rocking, rocking.

“Frodo?”

Small, tiny, extinct, ball curled in the corner – _can’t see, can’t see me, hide, hide, can’t find me, disappear –_ rocking, rocking, rocking.

“Frodo?”

_Quiet, small, invisi – NO!_ Can’t stop them, won’t stop – _please stop! –_ not even able to hold up arms to protect, to refuse malicious hands that take, bodies that use. _I am alone._

“FRODO!”

_A voice._

“If this is some sort of twisted game, Frodo, I’m not playing.”

_A voice –_ searching, calling, calling - _to me._

Headboard light switched on, the darkness defeated by a simple halogen bulb. “Really starting to freak me out now.”

Bed, carpet, dresser, nightstand. _Sam._

“Goddamnit, Frodo, where are you!?”

_Sam. Sam. Not alone. Sam._ “Down here.”

“Jesus Christ!”

In an instant, Frodo was cradled in Sam’s love, blanketed in his arms. _Never alone._

“Fuck, Frodo, what the hell are you doing on the floor?”

“Had a bad dream, tried to get out of bed without waking you. Guess I fell.” The kiss of Sam’s sleep toasty skin oozed the last of the nightmare chill away. “Sorry I woke you.”

Scooting them into the small pool of light, Sam did his best mother hen impersonation, poking and prodding, checking for injury. “You OK? Not hurt anywhere?”

“Just my pride, Sam,” normal voice retrieved from the shadows. “Stop fussing. I’m fine.”

“You’re fine?”

_Never alone._ “Yes, Sam.” Frodo snatched the flitting hands, bringing them to his lips. “I’m fine.”

“Nightmare, huh? Want to talk about it?”

Frodo believed without reservation that he was safe, protected in his lover’s arms. _Never alone._ But, escape from pain and humiliation too fragile. Even curled up against Sam, he couldn’t risk a revisit. “No, not really.” _Sam would understand, he always did._

“OK,” a kiss to Frodo’s forehead, “We won’t talk about it, then.”

Foolish, childish, all of it. He hadn’t been bothered with nightmares since…since… _Bilbo, Bag End and Sam._ So, why now, when orcs, Nazgul, Sauron even, designer nightmare fodder for sure, had never put in a REM appearance.

_Maybe it’s this place, being here with the smells, the sounds, the shrinks._

The Institute could have triggered the subconscious, brought back those memories long stuffed in the bottom drawer of the beat up chest labeled ‘childhood purgatory’ shoved in the far corner of his mind behind Xbox codes, the periodic table and the #10 bus route. Those dreams, the before happy night terrors, where he would watch impotently as the plane went down, his parents shrieking, burning, dying, had always started the same – their last goodbye hug, and always the same ending – wading in to find their bloated, bluish corpses, faces frozen in pain.

But, this one was somehow different - _vivid, visceral_ – the whips, the punches, the degradation, the hopelessness – _real._

And that scared Frodo shitless.

“Uh, Frodo.” Sam winced as the slim body pushed further into his lap.

“What? What is it?”

“As much as I love holding you naked like this, Frodo, the lease on my beer is up and your ass is making it worse.”

“Sorry.” A quick open kiss and Frodo unfolded himself from his protector.

“Go back to bed, Frodo,” Sam potty dancing to the bathroom.

“Want to grab something to drink first.”

Smacking dry lips and tongue around his mouth, Frodo tasted ash and decay, the last remnants of his dream. G _ut wrenching terror that it will happen aside._ If this had been Bag End, Frodo would not have thought twice about strutting out to the kitchen naked, Bilbo a like the dead sleeper. _And if Sam had just happened to be awake and watching..._ However, a sudden touch of modesty had him pulling on the only clothes readily available to him, sweatpants and button-down at bed’s end. Smiling at Sam’s contented sigh, and retrieved glasses bringing fuzzy world back into focus, he headed for liquid refreshment.

A block of light fell on Frodo’s feet, the cold of the fridge prompting a toe wiggle. The selection was small, but diverse. Delighted to see a childhood favorite, he snagged a Sunny D before closing the door and stopping the pale light’s intrusion into the kitchen’s down time. The fake OJ helped with the foreign tastes in his mouth, trickling down the back of this throat, washing the last of the fear away.

_I hope._

In the sitting room the dark lumps by the coffee table recognized as his wet clothes, and flush of desire swept thrilled as the intense memories of ‘washing the dishes’ pulled at his groin. _And Sam had this on!_ Looking down, with some chagrin he saw that his erection did not produce the same size bulge as the previous occupant. Of course, Sam wore a larger size than Frodo, several sizes in fact, the legs of the sweatpants curling about his feet, the waist hanging low on hips. Even though inadequate in that ancient male ritual of size comparison, the lining flashed silver. _I may not be carrying that huge package, but I’m the one who gets to play with it._

Gulping the last of the Sunny D, Frodo turned back to the bedroom already planning on just how to next unwrap Sam’s magnificent gift, when something moved out in the hall, by the door, sending silent movie flickers on carpet. Someone was walking, pausing just outside.

_Who…_

Frodo heard the toilet flush, the water in the bathroom sink gush on, Sam talking to himself. The light at the bottom of the door sharp angles, razor thin, deadly.

_Who is –_

“ _Frodo Baggins.”_

And the other shoe dropped.

“Frodo, now that we’re awake, I’m thinking I want to so some re…ne…go…ti…atingFrodo?”

The room was just as he had left it: dark, silent, bed with love tossed sheets. _He couldn’t have been that thirsty._ Sam listened for sounds out in the other part of the suite. Dead. “Frodo?” A call from the doorway, “Are you in the kitchen?” Dead. Walking with growing trepidation, Sam moved to the hallway. A stark light fell across the soothing beige carpet. “Frodo?” Dead. “You better not be making a bigger mess for me to clean up in there.” He rounded the corner and an empty kitchen greeted him. _The sitting room then._ “Frodo, let’s not go through this again. Only play naked hide and seek once per -”

The slumbering suite’s light source discovered just as a nurse passing by their open door learned of Sam’s likes and dislikes in nighttime activities. Both stood staring: one out in the hall dressed in a starched white uniform and an amused expression, the other bathed by the light of the open door, dressed in shock and a raging boner.

“A little late to be _up,_ don’t you think?”

He didn’t know what to do. Slamming the door in the nurse’s face his first instinct, but that would require him to run toward her and in his present condition, he might just do bodily harm. His second option, standing still, he had proven himself an expert. A third option thankfully presented itself. “Fuck!” Lamely covering naughty bits, he scrambled back to the bedroom.

“Shit!” Frodo was gone, probably wandering unfamiliar hallways, “And in my clothes apparently,” as a dive to the far side of the bed to retrieve sweatpants revealed. “Damn!” The first drawers yanked open contained only Frodo sized jeans – “Of course _,” -_ and he floor emptied three before finding his. Forgoing shoes, Sam snagged a shirt as he raced back out into the sitting room. The door stood wide open still, but at least the nurse was gone. The Institute’s hallways with the calm muted lighting reflected the early hour; quiet and empty. _"_ Why couldn’t it have been this way when I was bare ass naked?” He looked to his left, then his right, the desolate corridors rushing up to his eyes in dolly shot clarity. Frodo could be anywhere, lost, confused, afraid, and he had thousands of square feet of hospital, totally unknown territory, to search, find and bring Frodo back. This time only one option presented itself.

He went next door.

 

 

*******

 

 

“She’s beautiful.”

Picture palmed and slipped into a shirt pocket even before the other man sat down.

“Elrond’s daughter,” Boromir handed Aragorn a paper cup of steaming hospital cafeteria coffee, “Arwen, right?”

The cup tasted better than its contents, but Aragorn sipped the coffee anyway. It was warm, liquid and loaded with caffeine. Just what his empty stomach and pounding head needed. “Yes, Arwen Undomiel.”

Straddling the chair backwards, Boromir took a sip and winced. Crappy coffee opinions mutual. “Saw her at the party. Are you and she, ya’ know, together?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Ah,” was all Boromir said to that cryptic answer. Familiar with Elrond, no elaboration needed. “Must be nice to have that. Someone to think about, someone to come home to.”

“Don’t go to Rivendell that often, so I spend more time thinking than anything.”

Boromir surveyed the cafeteria absently. A table over by the entrance to the arboretum filled with white coats and cheery scrubs sat laughing while enjoying tuna salad and hot roast beef sandwiches. Two backs in the far corner pushed together seeking comfort and consolation. That was it, save for the two men resting in orange plastic holding a simple conversation that had both tense and on their guard. “Just thinking can drive you nuts, believe me.”

“Oh?” Tone more polite then intrigued. “You got a reason to go home? Someone waiting there for you?”

Big picture's common sense previously refused a platform, a different approach this time, the sympathy angle, one of a more personal nature. “Oh, yeah,” a mirthless snort, “my father.”

“So I’ve heard."

“Everybody has, which is fabulous PR, when trying to entice investors, keep the board from voting for a takeover.”

“Bad as all that?”

“Worse. Spends all his time locked up in his office, doing what? Hell if I know, he won’t tell me. Each day he becomes more distracted, easier to irritate, the littlest things, and boom! With Faramir the usual target.”

“Your brother.” Aragorn refreshed his memory.

 “Yeah. The better brother.” The contents of his coffee cup became fascinating. “Our city is growing weaker, Aragorn, and not just because of the recession. Despair and discontentment has taken up permanent residence. They’ve all lost both faith and hope, and my father expects me to make it all right again, and I just don’t know how to do that!” A pause. “Yes, I do.”

Hackles woke up. “Don’t go there.”

In his heart he believed, he knew, right where the Ring belonged, not on some silly Quest, not in the hands of a dweeby law student. _It belongs to Minas Tirith_. After the threats had been erased, after all trouble banished, after home was safe and secure, then they could do whatever they wanted with the damn thing, throw it into Mt. Doom, sell it on Ebay for all he cared. His priority was, is, always the White City and the return of its former glory.  _The Ring belongs to me._

“Boromir…”

Neither time, nor place or person for righteous agenda pushing, however, and prudent patience would surely reward in the end. _Moment is not now, but soon, very soon._ “I know, I know. It’s going to Mordor. I gave my word to the Council, and that is my bond.”

“Perhaps when all this is over, I could -”

PA announcement interrupted.

“We apologize for this intrusion. A great friend to not only this Institute, but to all who work and reside in Arda, Gandalf T. Grey, has passed through the curtain. Let us take a moment of silence to honor this courageous soul and dear friend.”

Aragorn’s face hidden behind dark hair, so Boromir could not discern whether his promise of fealty to the Quest had been accepted or not. _Matters not, really. The Ring **will** be mine. And you’ll see, father, the White Tower will shine again. Upon my life, I swear._

 

 

*****

 

 

“Hello?” A faint shuffling on the far side of the room started the butterflies in Frodo’s stomach flying.

An open invitation, “ _Come and talk, Frodo, I have something to show you, reveal to you, things you need to know. Come to my office, Frodo”,_ had pulled him out of the room, inexplicably drawn in one direction. Several times on his journey he had stopped, intending to return to the safety and ignorance which his room represented. Safer not to know, then come face to face with the truth. Several times he had halted, determined to go back and disappear into anonymous sleep. He already carried the Ring, evil incarnate right against his flesh; wasn’t that enough truth for one lifetime? Must he be shown even more? Several times he ceased following her voice, vowing to close his mind, go back to bed and remain blissfully ignorant. Yet, each time he walked on, answering her invitation, moving ever nearer something he did not want to know.

“Frodo,” spoken from the shadows, “So glad you could join me.”

“What do you want?”

“I would like to share with you, Frodo, that’s all.”

The banker’s lamp on her desk clicked on, its green tinted light barely illuminating the room. Galadriel sat behind the desk, serene, enfolded in long, white robes that waterfalled as she moved. Her face revealed nothing. Blank slate. “Please sit down.”

He had two choices: couch or small chair directly in front of her desk. As much as he wished to place distance between them, Frodo could not bring himself to sit on the leather couch. _Been there, done that, got the Zoloft to prove it._ The small chair held his rigid frame without protest.

“Are you enjoying your stay with us, Frodo?” The voice was neutral, even.

“It’s fine, I guess.”

A Dixon-Ticondaroga # 2 pointed to the ceiling between her fingers. The digits crossed the length down to the bottom, then flipped the pencil over, eraser on the top. The fingers traveled down again to the point, slowly, tips smooth against the wood. The point reached, the pencil returned to the first position, fingers sliding again. Tick and slide. “And the Fellowship? Do they find the accommodations to their liking?”

Frodo watched her play with the pencil, movements unhurried. Flipped again. Tick and slide. “Can’t say. Haven’t spoken to everybody.”

“Meriadoc and Peregrin, then?” Tick and slide. “How are they settling in?”

The pencil between two fingers, such a simple gesture. _Why is it so fascinating?_ “Seemed OK to me.”

“And your Samwise,” voice heavy liquid. Tick and slide. “Is he comfortable?”

At the mere mention of Sam’s name, the simple gesture with the pencil took on a completely new context. The languid stroke down the length, the great attention paid to the very tip. He became as rigid as the chair in which he sat. “He hasn’t complained.”

“I daresay he has not. Dear Samwise has found his time here most satisfying.”

Sam. Satisfying. _Oh, she got that right._ Those words definitely fit together. Tick and slide. Tick and slide.

“And you seem to find Samwise satisfying as well.”

Frodo stood up so fast the small chair slapped the carpet. “If you got me down here to talk about my sex life, it’s gonna be a one sided conversation.” _I knew it! Cameras in the rooms, just like the pervs in Rivendell._

Tick and slide. “Do you not wish to talk about your Sam?” Tick and slide.

Wise to the ways, Frodo did not fall for her seemingly innocent question. “Not your patient, so you can drop the doctor bullshit.” Frodo knew therapy. How saying words like ‘desire’ and ‘boy’ in the same sentence can get your privileges taken away, phone calls monitored, internet access shut down, moved out of your male cousin’s room, new words like queer and faggot slapped in your face. Frodo had been here before. Not going to happen this time. Sam was too special. Hell, Sam was his life. Not going to mention his name in this office with the leather and the diplomas, not going to taint their love with psycho-babble and false acceptance. Sam would stay clean. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

Tick. “Then let’s talk about the nightmare.”

Frodo rushed at the desk. “How did you know about -” A head slapping moment. He had fallen for the oldest trick in the Psych 101 textbook. _Force a reaction, guard distracted, in for the kill._ Trying to piece together the shreds of his defiance, he righted the chair and slumped down like a petulant child. “Don’t want to talk about that either.”

"As you wish." Her expression never changed. “I want you to watch something, Frodo.” She handed him a remote, and almost magically from behind a wood panel a 60” plasma screen appeared.

“What is it?” _First it was Sam, then the nightmare, now we’re sitting down to a movie?_ “What’re we watching?”

“Who can tell? Maybe a history, or a documentary on current events. Perhaps it will be set in the distant future. One can never tell.”

“Oooookay, whatever.” _Perhaps the therapist needs therapy herself._

“Just watch, Frodo.”

Content now that they were talking about neither his love life nor his hellish nightmare, though wary he was about to see grainy security cam footage of his own ass – _better Sam’s Oscar worthy ass  -_ he pressed play. A scene selection menu popped up. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Choose one, Frodo,” voice from somewhere behind him, the room suddenly dark, “which ever scene you wish to see.”

With shaky hands, truly off balance now, Frodo pressed play.

Scene 1 The Shire.

Aerial shot of the northwest corner showing Sam’s rose garden on the roof. Camera pans down the front catching the Widow Bushey’s calico cat, Fatty, in the window and the Chubb’s window boxes full of plastic geraniums.

_Just like I left it._

Camera pulls back to show the green door of Bag End peeking out over the sidewalk in front.

_Goddamn, I miss home!_

Camera continues the master shot scanning the street.

_But, where’s the Ivy Bush Tavern, and the East/West Fold Laundromat?_

Burned out shells hunkering in their place. Across the street, The Mill, a chi-chi art gallery, in tatters. In every camera shot, destruction and devastation.

“No, this can’t be right.” Frodo pressed next chapter.

Scene 2 Bilbo Baggins

A withered hand lay lifeless on a tin cup, the edge of the cardboard box keeping the frozen corpse upright.

“What – what is this?”

Scene 3 Samwise Gamgee

Hands dripped blood and sweat as he lifted the twisted metal from the scrap pile. A bodiless hand flashed the whip, lashing out across Sam’s welt mottled back, bringing up splashes of flesh and gore. The whip did not even stop when Sam tumbled to the ground unable to rise.

“Dear god.” Frodo dropped the remote. He did not want to see anymore. “Joke's fucking over, lady."

Scene 4 Peregrin Took

Hands tied, body barely covered in rags, but he is dressed no better than anyone else in this long line, all filthy, starved, devoid of hope. Most of Pip’s hair as well as the sparkle in his green eyes ripped away.

“Stop it! Fucking stop it!”

On his knees, Frodo beat fists on the remote, but the horror on the screen sped up, moving through the other chapters on fast forward. Aragorn with half his face blown off. Legolas eating from a dumpster. Gimli floating face down.

“I said stop!”

The whole screen was burning, all consumed by flames. Frodo clawed back, “No, no, goddamnit, NO!” Not far enough, never far enough, there was no far enough for The Eye was all now, no more movie, no more plasma screen, no office, no Institute, no Frodo, nothing. Arda burned complete.

“STOP!”

Black. The soft clicks as the DVD cycled back.

The Ring in his hand scorched - _How? Why?_  - residual heat from the destruction of the world. “Is that - is that what’s going to happen?”

“Should the Quest fail, yes,” Galadriel’s unadorned response.“If you should fail.”

“Me? That will all be my fault if -” scrambling up from the floor, he slapped The Ring down front and center, “then I don’t want it! Here, take it. I don’t fucking want it!”

Galadriel sat very still, eyes laser focused on the object before her. “Are you giving the Ring to me? Giving it of you own free will?”

“Hell, yes! Take it! It’s yours!”

A shaking hand crept towards The Ring, hovering close above the humming. “I have secretly longed for this day, Frodo, dreamed of this moment.” Fingertips a kiss away from the warm metal. “This Ring, the Ring of power to wield, to control.” Greed, lust, want. “The power at last would be mine!” Mania dripping with omnipotence. “Everyone would come to me!” Her corrupting laughter strangled the air. “Beautiful and strict, that’s the Master I’d be.” She threw waves of domination out across the office. “My wrath swift, my power absolute!”

It all happened so fact that Frodo had trouble sorting out what he actually experienced. One moment, Galadriel is babbling about power, control and wrath; the next she jerked back, collapsed in her chair, mumbling something about a test, and passing into the west. One thing he did understand, though; the Ring lay on the desk unclaimed.

“It must be destroyed, Frodo.”

“But, why me? Why must I be the one to do it!”

Pale blue demanded attention. “You were chosen for this task, Frodo.”

“Fucking great! Why didn’t I have a vote? Why wasn’t I consulted when this decision was made?”

Only an enigma of a smile.

_Could just leave right now, walk out the door, collect my things, grab Sam, and leave everything behind. Let someone else do this. Someone who’s brave and strong, someone who knows all the shit about Sauron, Arda and Illuvatar. Someone who is taller!_ “Can’t we at least talk about this? Help me understand. Please!”

Her face softened, stepping out from behind the desk, to take Frodo’s hands in her own. “Even those who have lived as long as I cannot begin to fathom all the mysteries of the Song.”

Breaking point reached, Frodo’s rage fought back. “Don’t give a flying FUCK about any goddamn song! This is my life, MY life! Why must it be all or nothing? It’s just not fair!”

“Fair or not, Frodo, if you do not see this through to the end, if you do not find a way, then all is truly lost.”

Child Frodo was having a battle royale with grown up Frodo. The young one kicked and screamed not to believe her. _She’s one of them, the liars, the fakes, don’t believe her! Run, run! Don’t listen!_ Now, grown up Frodo admitted that the little brat did have some valid points, and if he were to base his decision solely on past experience, the older of the two Frodos should indeed turn tail and run.

_But, her eyes…_

He fell, he watched, he witnessed, eons stretching out, beyond the sun, beyond the moon, over sundering seas, to beauty and peace, lush green hills, the Trees, the jewels, the slaughter, the Fall. The waiting. Her home, his home, eternal rest hung in the balance, a frayed thread binding everything. Here was truth, here purpose, and he breathed deeply the pristine air.

_I trust her. Trust her to the end of all things._

Grown up Frodo sent his younger self to the corner for a time out.

“Oh, fuck it! No one around here is dumb enough to want this fucking thing anyway.” Once the chain fell about his neck, the Ring nestled to Frodo’s chest, he sighed completed.

“There is one,” Galadriel warned as Frodo reached for the door, “One who wants the Ring for his own. You know of whom I speak.”

“Yes, yes I do.” Frodo had worn those hungry eyes since Rivendell. _It’s taking him, just like Gollum, just like almost Bilbo, just like…_

“Frodo? Is there something more you wish to discuss?”

Where a few moments ago the idea of leaving this room had been almost orgasmic, now he lingered, his fears unsure of wanting an answer. “It won’t be only him, will it? If I stay with the Fellowship, one by one -”

“It might destroy them all.”

“Even Sam?”

“The Ring has only one desire.”

“But, I don’t want to do this by myself! I’m scared.” Tears fell unashamed. “So fucking scared.”

Her first genuine smile. “Frodo, it is perfectly normal to be frightened when facing insurmountable odds. Remember though, the future may be altered by a single person, be he brave and strong, or small and timid.”

“But, without Sam?”

“You are the Ringbearer, Frodo.” A circle of white sparkled on her finger. “And a Ringbearer often walks a separate path.”

_The Ring. Destroyed. Timid and small._ Her words echoed as he stumbled back to the room. _It will destroy them all._ ALL. He knew what he had to do now and it shattered his very essence. _This is my task, my own._ _I am the Ringbearer._

_I am alone._


	13. Chapter Thirteen

“Sam?” Merry’s still sleepy eye peeked through the crack in the door. “What are you -”

No time for pleasantries. “Have you seen Frodo?” He pushed passed, stalking into the dimness of the room. “Is he here?”

“What do you mean is Frodo here?” Merry did not process cryptic information very well at…whatever fuck time it was. “Thought he was with you.”

Running into the kitchen, Sam flipped on the light. Nothing. Back into the sitting room. “Frodo’s gone.”

Pip appeared at the bedroom doorway wrapped in the soft colors of the bed’s duvet, half of his hair smooshed up at a right angle. “Frodo’s gone?”

“Disappeared, left, run away,” shoving his way through, he checked the bedroom. Nothing.

And that was Merry’s wake-up call.. “When? Why? _How_?”

The bathroom empty as well, “Shit!”, and Sam charged back into the sitting room. “About five minutes ago. I got up to take a piss, said he was just going to the kitchen. I came out and the front door was standing wide open.” Sam began to pace the room, taking the path, twelve steps each way, “Why, why, why did I leave him alone?” The slam of his hand to forehead in sync. “WHY?”

“Maybe he just went out for a walk or something,” Pip suggested as he curled up in the corner of the couch becoming a pile of muted beige crowned with pillow tossed hair. “Ya’ know, some air getting?”

“In New York City? At three in the morning?” Sam edging toward shout decibels, “Something’s happened, I just know it. Something’s wrong!” His pacing and slapping intensified.

“How do you know - Sam, please - how do you - Sam stop, - how do - Sam, - how - for fuck’s sake, Sam, stop!” Merry’s frustrated hands put action into his words. “How do you know something’s wrong? What happened, Sam?”

Sam swallowed, nearly gagging on worry. “Frodo had a dream, a real bad one. Found him balled up in the corner, crying.”

“Christ! What did he dream about? Did he tell you?”

“I asked, he said he didn’t want to talk about it, but I knew the dream had scared the shit out of him.”

“Did anybody knock? Call? Maybe somebody came to get him?”

“Aragorn, perhaps.” Pip stuck in.

“Don’t know, no idea, in the bathroom, remember?”

“And Frodo did say anything? Leave a note, you missed, maybe?”

“NO!” Sam’s last shred of patience unraveled. “Haven’t you been listening to me? He walked out and all you’re doing is asking stupid ass questions!”

“Sam, we’re only trying to help,” a quiet Pip reminder. “We love Frodo, too.”

They didn’t understand, couldn’t, neither had witnessed what had cowered in the bedroom corner, trapped, terrified, an animal defeated. _What if the dream returned, a flashback, he’s out there, chased, afraid, what if Frodo is still trying to escape?_ “I’ve got to go,” he was running for the door, “got to find him.”

“Are you fucking crazy?” It took all of Merry’s fortitude to drag him back into the room. “Sam, let’s just take a minute to -”

Strength, agility and blind panic won the fight against Merry’s arms and bolted for the door again. “Don’t try and stop me.”

“Think again, Samwise.”

Strength, agility and blind panic did not see Pip coming.

“Get off!” Tackled and prostrate on the floor, Sam was held in place by a Merry headlock, and an ass sitting Pip. “Get the fuck off!”

“Calm down! You don’t even know which direction to go, for fuck’s sake!” Reason shouted in captive’s ear. “You charge off, get yourself lost, and how does that help Frodo? It doesn’t!”

He kicked, he bucked, he scratched, scrambled and seethed to be free. “Got to – do some – thing!”

Pip rode the storm of flaying legs. “Then let’s call someone, someone who knows the place, let them know he’s missing. There’s got to be security cam -”

Someone else find Frodo? Someone else Frodo didn’t know? _If he’s scared, if he’s confused, if he is -_ Someone else take Sam’s Frodo guardian place. “NO! No, must be -”

“Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?”

A tangle of arms and legs bounced around the hallway, Merry and Sam knocking hard against opposite walls, Pip scooting back, and all had a sudden interest in the carpet.

“No, ma’am,” Pip southern charmed the smirking nurse, “Just boys wrastlin’ and having fun, that’s all.”

“Around here, boys sleep this time of day. I’ll say good night,” bemused warning fell hardest on Sam, “again.” She shut the door this time, though.

“Shit.” A Sam facepalm.“That’s twice in one night.”

“What’s twice?” Merry on the other wall breath catching.

He pointed at the door. “Her, that nurse. Second time she’s seen me tonight when I was…I was…”

“Sleeping, eating, conjugating verbs? What?”

“When I was…because Frodo…”

“She saw you and Frodo?” Pip piqued by the gossipy goodness “Together, doing the nasty?”

“What?” Sam caught on. “No, for pity’s sake, Pip, no! Jesus, why would you even think that?”

“Well, Frodo plus nurse chagrin plus ‘When I was…I was…’ usually equals…”

“ _After_ Frodo went missing.” Sam flushed bright red. “She saw just me.”

“She caught you, singular, solo, when you was…” Pip beyond surprise. “Well, no wonder you’re mortified.”

“No, damnit! She didn’t catch me doing nothing. Came out looking for Frodo and I was na - never mind.” Pushing up from the floor, Sam returned to his pacing. “Forget I said anything.”

“Weren’t we about to call for help?” Merry nudged Pip.

“Right.” Springing up, Pip ran to the small table to the left of the couch. “Calling help.”

“Wait!”

All stopped mid-motion: Pip with phone, Merry on floor, Sam at window.

“Wasn’t even supposed to be there, ya’ know,” reticence puffing at the glass, “How do I explain that?”

“Just luck, I guess?” Pip offered.

“Oh yeah, right. At three-seventeen AM, I just happened to be walking by Frodo’s room and noticed the door open. Nobody’s going to believe that, Pip. And when they find him, it’s just coincidence that he’s wearing my clothes?”

“He is? Aren’t they too big for him?”

“Think everyone will be more interested in the how and the why, not the what.”

Merry dismissed Sam’s worries. "Don’t think it’s really a secret.”

“For the Fellowship maybe, and I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think.” The window reflected Sam’s inner turmoil. “But, these are important people. Maybe they don’t want him taking up with the likes of me.”

Brooklyn, that was Sam. Brighton Beach and the Q line, baseball in the streets and Shabbat dinner with loud relatives; faded, patched jeans and a paycheck to paycheck existence. Brooklyn was in Sam as sure as the Bridge took you there. He knew where he came from, proud of his roots and heritage, rough edges and all. It’s just that those edges would never match the smoothness of Frodo.

Despite all his protestations of humble beginnings, (orphaned and all), Frodo could never deny his breeding. Born of the three most prominent families in upstate New York, he practically oozed class even when blowing his nose. His quiet and genteel manner of speaking, (to those not his friends, that is), his innate poise and charm belied any claim Frodo could make on being ordinary. Upstate Frodo was so far away from Brooklyn Sam that even in his wildest dreams, Sam had always thought their love impossible. Yet, here he was, traveling with Frodo, protecting him, waking up beside him, and Frodo’s smiles now turned to Sam not just in gratitude, but in love.

The first part of the journey had been one long chase scene, a brief respite or two on the way. So frenzied, Sam would describe the beginning of the Quest as running on Benny Hill fast forward until Rivendell returned it to normal speed. The new and improved relationship of Frodo and Sam may have been obvious to others, but Elrond and Co. had had too much to do, like farming out mortal danger, to care two hoots and a holler about with whom the Ringbearer spent his nights. But, the Quest was on pause now giving everyone a chance for a breather. Here at the Institute, a completely different story.

The Ringbearer. Sam watched, Sam understood, the eyes of this place looked on with deference and awe. Frodo had become apart, above. And someone that special deserved to be surrounded by individuals of the same caliber. Of Aragorn and Boromir there was no question as to their worth. With Legolas it had been hinted at royalty somewhere in his family. Gimli had so many letters after his name, so many college degrees, that he could start his own alphabet. Even Merry and Pip hailed from old family money. Who did that leave? Samwise Gamgee, work-a-day Sam whose only claim to fame were blue ribbons for his chili at the Coney Island Cook Off three years running. Hardly proper Ringbearer companion material.

“That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve heard in a long time, Gamgee,”

“And I know Frodo doesn’t see you like that,” poised to dial when prompted, Pip agreed with Merry, “Frodo loves you, Sam. You can see it in his eyes. He _loves_ you.”

Yes, Sam knew that; it had been declared many times over in the throes of passion. How that translated to outside the bedroom - _or the sitting room floor, or the bathroom, or the hallway up against the mirror -_ had Sam tied up in knots. Ready to commit, right now and for always, that’s Sam. Ready to walk down the street hand in hand, ready to buy a microwave together, to argue over what to watch on Netflix, and dirty or clean in the dishwasher. Ready for sheet and towel days, hot cocoa midnights and before teeth brushed mornings. Ready and raring to spend the rest of his life with Frodo as his partner. Only one thing stood in the way. “But, he’s the Ringbearer now.”

Merry couldn’t stand it anymore. “Big fucking deal! So, he carries the Ring, so what?” Pushing off from the wall, he stood and walked towards the kitchen. “Ringbearer has to take a dump just like the rest of us.”

Pip still phone poised. “Uh, shouldn’t I be waking someone up already?”

“No strangers,” Sam finally turned from the window, “Don’t want to have to explain everything to strangers.” The G rated version – ‘I’m staying with Frodo.’ PG-13 – ‘I’m sleeping with Frodo.’ R – ‘I’m having sex with Frodo.’ NC-17 – ‘I’m fucking the little guy’s brains out.’ “Don’t want to explain anything.”

“OK, how about Aragorn?” Returning with a beer, Merry popped the cap, sending a pungent shower through the air. “Room thirty-nineteen, I think.”

“Right, calling Aragorn.”

“Good. Great. Get Aragorn, find Frodo, and we all skip our way to Mordor.” Merry belched. “Then drop the goddamn thing into the Cracks of Doom, and bada-bing! The world’s a lovely place again.”

“Just that simple, huh?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Sam, I know going to Mordor’s gonna’ be tough. Hell, getting here was a bitch and we haven’t left New York City yet.”

“Calling Aragorn, who will pick up any moment now.”

One long, noisy swallow and Merry continued. “But, we’re all facing the danger together, Sam, all eight of us. Sure, Frodo’s got the thing, but we have his back.”

Perverse as it sounds, if nothing else, Sam should really offer the thing thanks.  If The Ring had not come into their lives he and Frodo could have lived together in separate rooms for years until life or circumstance saw the boxes and suitcases packed and awkward goodbyes at the door without ever speaking from the heart. The Ring had done that for Sam; brought Frodo into his arms.

_But, I never thought it’d be a three-way._ Sheer, sensual pleasure. That’s the look in Frodo’s eyes when he touches it. A stray moment and hand greets the chain, a sigh, a smile, bliss. And just tonight when asked to remove the damn thing, the snarl on his lips, the fury in his eyes, picture perfect what it really meant to be the Ringbearer.

“Any minute now, Aragorn on the phone, any minute now.”

The dream, the voices, the weight dragging his every step. How much longer must Frodo carry this burden? _How much longer can he?_

“Aragorn’s help coming right – damn, he must sleep like the dead.”

“This is fucking ridiculous!” Sam headed straight for the door, no stopping him this time. “I’m outta here.”

Slamming the phone down, Pip dashed towards the bedroom and a shirt. “I’m coming with you!”

“Suit yourself.” Yanking the door open, Sam half expected to see that voyeur nurse standing there with her ear to the door. “But, I’m going _now_.”

“Sam, wait!”

Nope, no more waiting, too much waiting already, he turned right, and kept on going. ‘You are his greatest source of strength.’ That’s what the lady shrink had whispered. ‘Do not fail him.’ _Don’t worry, lady, may only be simple Samwise, but Frodo’s got me to lean on. And whether he comes to me at night as a lover or just a friend, The Ringbearer will always have his Sam. I would never leave my –_

“FRODO!”

“Guess Sam found Frodo.”

Pip and Merry peeked around the door’s corner catching the lovers in their embrace, when footfalls down the hallway alerted the coming of another.

“Sure Sam doesn’t want to go for three,” Merry pulled the door closed for hospital staff crossing.

Smiling and nodding, they both greeted her pass by, only this time a no more Ms. Nice Nurse frown accompanied her eye on you crisp uniform.  “Bed, gentlemen, now.”

 “Well, since we’ve by ordered there, you want to try for three, Merry?”

The Rolex on his wrist told impeccable time. “Three-thirty-seven now. Wake-up call at seven. Might be just enough _._ ” Snagging of like mind hand, Merry and Pippin disappeared behind closed door. The chair under the knob was just a precaution.

Sam said not one word for over a minute, just clung to Frodo, allowing the heat of their bodies burn away concern, dread and downright terror. “Goddamn, Frodo. Don’t ever do that again.”

“You were worried?”

“You left! No word, no note, no nothing! Just gone! And after your dream, I didn’t - of course I was worried, fucking crazy with worry. Thought you were hurt or sick or lost or -”

Frodo stopped Sam’s ramblings with a kiss.

“Oh, Frodo.” Pent up tears and ebullient kisses covered Frodo’s face. “God, I thought I had lost you.”

“But, I’m back now. Sam, please, oh fuck, Sam, please don’t cry.”  

“You out there all alone.”

_To be a Ringbearer is to be alone._

“I’m fine, Sam, really, I am.” _And I know what I must do. But, not yet, not right now. Now I’m me, I’m just plain Frodo._

“Where were you? Where did you go? _Why_ did you -”

“Make love to me, Sam.” _Just give me one more night, please?_

Eyes opened wide. “What, now?”

_‘Cause now is the only time we have._ Frodo drew Sam into a deep kiss. “Make love to me, Sam. Right now, right here.”

A furtive front door glance. “Not here.” Scooping Frodo up in his arms, he effortlessly hurried him back to the bedroom, depositing his precious cargo on the bed. Lovingly and without judgment, Sam removed Frodo’s cheek smudged glasses, and saw them safely on the bedside table before slipping in between the sheets. “Who knows if we’ll have something this grand next time.”

_There won’t be a next time, Sam._ Frodo waited for the right moment, after clothes lay in discarded piles, Ring pushed to the side – _Frodo, I am Frodo -_ after lips and skin bore the love marks of enflamed mouths, after their sweaty bodies established the correct rhythm - the right moment arrived. “I want you inside me, Sam.”

Huge step reaction dulled by lust. “Frodo, we’ve never, I mean, I’ve never, well, not with another, you know, god knows I want, wanted for so fucking long, but do you really want…?” words muffled by a nipple.

“I need to feel you, Sam.” _Ringbearer…alone._ “Inside me.”

“Where are we going to , I mean we need, and we should have,” question answered by a small bottle revealed from under one pillow. “How did you -”

“This is a hospital after all.”

“And a condom?”

From the other pillow.

“When, where did you get that?”

“Met a very helpful nurse in the hallway.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Give.”

“Want some help?”

“Oh, no, this I better do alone.”

"While I enjoy the scenery."

“Got to ask again. Are you sure about this, Frodo?”

The chapter that covered this subject, anal intercourse, he had read so many times the pages of The Book were dog-eared and dirty, imagination stirring fantasies of Sam’s touch, Sam’s weight, Sam playing his body like Yo Yo Ma with his cello, exploring all the right places in precisely the right way, bringing him to the point where intelligent speech became impossible, raspy moans and shouts of more thundered off the ceiling, and their fuck frenzy culminating in a dimension altering orgasm. _Those dreams were always three sheet nights_. Technically he knew the steps, Tab A in Slot B, etc, abstractly he understood what should happen, reading and actually doing, however, were on opposite sides of the sexual experience divide. _It’s Sam, I know, but am I ready, really ready for the invasion, the pain, to give myself in such an intimate –_

_To be a Ringbearer…alone._

“Frodo?”

_One night, that’s it, that’s all we, I, have left. So, fuck yes, Sam –_ “I’m sure.”

“Then you better save some of that lube for me.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Here, let me help -”

“No, want to touch you.”

“I can do…oh, god, Frodo.”

“Big, so big, Sam, and hard. Fucking hard.”

“Mmmm, and if you don’t stop now, Frodo, this whole idea will become academic, if you get my meaning.”

“Sorry. No, I’m not. I like touching you, stroking you.”

“You know what? I like it, too.”

“Think I’m going like you touching me other places, too.”

“Like here?”

“Sam, damn! Hurts!”

“Relax, breath. Here like this: in and out, in and out.”

“In and out, in and out.”

“OK? Ready for another?”

“Mmmm hmmmm. Sam?”

“Yes, Frodo?”

“Where’s the other finger? Don’t feel anything?”

“Really? How ‘bout now!”

“Jesus!”

“Down, Frodo, down!”

“Good, that was good! Whatever you did, it – it - soooo good!”

“God, you are so incredibly sexy. Eyes closed, all flushed, mouth hanging open.”

“Few other things open, too, Sam.”

“And getting wider.”

“Hey! Where’d you go? Come back! Want you back!”

“Just moving around, that’s all, so I can -”

“Oh.”

“Can stop right now, if you’re having second -”

“Fuck me, Sam.”

“Hold still. Move your, no, leg up, Frodo, stop! Can’t. Ow!”

“Sorry.”

“Pillow, put a pillow under -”

“Like this?”

“Legs up, tilt your ass. Much better. You ready?”

“Born ready for you, Sam.”

“Remember to breathe, Frodo, in and out, in and out.”

“In and out. Yeah, I get it, Sam.”

“Going to enter -”

“Don’t know what you’re so - JESUS H CHRIST!”

“Frodo!”

“DAMN! SHIT! FUCK!”

“I’m stopping now.”

“You do and I’ll cut it off and feed it to a raving Red Sox fan!”

“But, you’re -”

“Sam, please, don’t stop. I’ll be fine, just give me a minute, OK? I want you, Sam, want to feel you inside me, OK? Don’t stop, please , come on, Sam, come back in, please, for me, Sam, please need you…ahhh, Sam, yes, you’re back!”

“Just dropped by to say I had to go.”

“Leaving, only to return again.”

“Frodo, Frodo, my god, it’s, you’re, so, not what I, damn.”

“Well said, Mr. Gamgee.”

“Frodo, you look, you are beautiful. The only word, the only way to describe.”

“You’re fucking huge, Sam! Faster. Sam, ‘snot fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You can see, watch. I can’t, mmmmmm, very nice!”

“Open your eyes, Frodo.”

“Glasses, remember? Deeper. Blind as a bat without ‘em.”

“Grab your legs, then. Like this. Up to your chest.”

“This?”

“Yeah, like -”

“Oh, god! Sam, you feel, well, hello!”

“Hello, Frodo.”

“Right, shit, shit Sam, right, that’s  - incredible!”

“And say hello to your prostate, too, Mr. Baggins.”

“Rather you do that, Mr. Gamgee.”

“Hello – hello – hello – hel – lo!”

“Oh, shit, Sam! God, that’s, that’s, dark green.”

“Dark green? God! What’s dark green?”

“Your eyes. Your eyes go all dark green when you fuck. Did you know that? Faster, Sam!”

“Never looked. Blue, that same amazing blue.”

“Never like the mmmmmmmmmmm color.”

“What? Are you nuts? Frodo, up a little, yeah, right there. Eyes are fucking amaz -”

“Ow! Shit! OW! Damn!”

“What? What is it?”

“Cramp! Oh, god, cramp in the leg!”

“Ok, just bring it down, easy.”

“Don’t you leave me!”

“Frodo, isn’t going to work this way.”

“Don’t! Want you on me, in me.”

“Demanding little bitch, aren’t you?”

“Damn skippy. Please, Sam, need you against me. Don’t! Please! Sam!”

“Alright, calm down! Let’s try this. Leg down, roll to the left. That’s right. On your side, me behind. Right, just like that.”

“Oh, illustration twenty-three-B.”

“Lean back, head on my arm, that’s it, leg up, good.”

“This is better.”

“You OK?”

“Find it again, Sam, find the spot.”

“Pull your ass back a bit.”

“As far as it can - OH! That’s it!”

“You’re right, this is better. No, I love this! Feel your body, your ass, watch you, your skin, smell you, touch you.”

“Shit! Did you just bite me?”

“Your shoulder, yeah. Taste good.”

“Sam!”

“Dick, fills my hand, so fucking hot. ”

“Dick fills my body, so goddamn – Shit!”

“You, only you.”

_Only for tonight._

“Fuck me, Sam.”

“Thought that’s what I was doing.”

“Fuck me, Sam! Hard!”

“Oh, god! So sweet, feel so – grab pillow, sheet, ass, but not my hair!”

“No idea, how good, how great, how fucking fantastic this – you -”

“Our first time, Christ, first time!”

_Our only time._

“Say my name, Sam, oh, god, so close, say my name.”

“Frodo. Shit! Frodo.”

“That’s right! Tell me who I am, Sam. Faster, fuck me faster!”

“Frodo, Frodo love, Frodo dearest, Frodo my life!”

“Sam, oh, Sam, you in me, uh, in me, Jesus, close, SAM!”

“Frodo…Frodo…Frodo!”

“Close, Sam, close, yes, FUCK! Love you, Sam uh, oh, SHIT! Sam in Frodo, damn, close, oh, I am Frodo, uh, um, Sam, I’m Frodo, I’m, I’m…FUCK!”

“Frodo, love you, love you, Frodo, Frodo, shit, uh, uh – shit!”

“I AM FRODO!”

 

 

 

 

 

“Sam? You OK? Sam? Sam?”

“Thanks for cleaning my hand.”

“Never tasted myself before. Weird.”

“You taste good to me.”

“I love you, Sam.”

“Love you, Frodo Baggins.”

“NO! Don’t move! Don’t!”

“But, Frodo, we’re all squicky and -”

“NO! DON’T! Stay right where you are! DON’T MOVE!”

“At least like me take off the -”

“No. Stay right there, inside me.”

“OK, whatever you say.”

_Ringbearer…alone_

“Stay Sam and Frodo.”

“Sleep now, OK? Got to sleep now.”

“Sleep, Sam, perchance to dream.”

“Already had the rub.”

“Night.”

“Night, love. Always here if you need me.”

_Ringbearer is to be alone._

“Not tonight, tonight I’m just Sam’s Frodo.”

“Sam’s Frodo. Hmmm, I like that.”

“Sam’s Frodo.”

_Alone._

While the lovers slept, Sam softened, bodies shifted and the Ring curled into Frodo’s palm.

  
 


	14. Fourteen

Aragorn met Celeborn at the make your own waffle bar, not surprised to see the other man’s hair pulled back reveling his true origins. They were in the private staff dining room after all, where over half the occupants displayed the fine, upswept shape.

“So, you are leaving today, Estel?” The waffle pulled a perfect golden brown, both sides, not a single bit sticking to the iron.

“The sooner the better.” His turn next, Aragorn’s batter sizzled as it met the heated pattern, spreading out in blueberry lumps before closing. “Linger too long in one place, your enemy has a chance to find and catch you.”

Honey filled ever pucker, all the corners, Celeborn’s waffle a bloom with strawberry slices and a dash of cream in the middle. “Only one day have you spent with us and I’m afraid the enemy is advancing quickly. Haste is indeed recommended.”

“The advantage is ours, though.” Iron flipped, Aragorn took the waiting time to plop three scoops of butter on his plate, waffle to go on top, smothered in syrup. “Even Sauron would not be so bold as to send out his minions into broad daylight. Mordor orcs, for all the Dark Lord’s cunning are still orcs. Very noticeable in a crowd.”

Apple juice, herbal tea and a small glass of milk placed exactly on a tray, Celeborn awaited the other man so a table could be shared. “Sauron has many others, not just orcs, Estel. You should know that.”

Ding! He opened the waffle iron to…not a waffle. More like an amorphous blob, partially cooked in places, well done in others, with non-blueberry lumps throughout. _Eh, definitely had worse._ The wad with waffle tendencies scraped out, and slapped on the waiting butter. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Celeborn.” Black, thankfully fully leaded, coffee completed Aragorn’s tray.

Celeborn arranged the items from his tray in a pleasing picture across the wooden tabletop. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but -”

“You love it,” Aragorn began eating as soon as butt hit bench. “You put on that ominous voice, look all serious and foreboding. Admit it, you like to see people tremble at your feet.”

Two dashes of milk in his tea, and Celeborn conceded the point. “OK, you are correct, normally I do have a touch of the dramatic. However, this time the situation needs no cheap theatrics to sound grave.

Aragorn stopped mid chew. “Hmmmmmm?”

“Sauron may not have modern world adaptable orcs, however, Isengard has not been idle.”

A particularly hard lump struggled its way down Aragorn’s swallow. “Saruman? What’s he been up to?”

“Plenty, my friend, plenty.” Waffle portions, each cut with exactly the same amount of squares and topped with a strawberry slice, occupied Celeborn’s attention for a few moments. With all finally to his liking, Celeborn set the knife across the back edge of his plate, blade in, then lap spread the crisp napkin. A sip of juice to cleanse the pallet, left hand resting lightly on his thigh, Celeborn took up his fork and commenced to break his fast. “Apparently he has gone into the orc manufacturing business.”

Aragorn pushed his plate back, finished. “Saruman is creating orcs? Whatever for?”

“His own army, one would assume. Considered bad form to use the army of the one you are trying to steal from, don’t you think?”

Lounging back, his long legs crossed at the ankles, Aragorn gulped the last of his coffee. “Still after the Ring, then, is he? Does he really believe he can get his hands on it?”

Fresh linen dabbed at the corners of Celeborn’s mouth. “When the Ring is protected by a freelancer, a scientist, an engineer, two college boys and a bookstore clerk, he probably figures his chances are high.”

The dig about the Fellowship well taken. If truth be told, Aragron’s misgivings had traveled to the same place many times. “He must find it first, Celeborn, find Frodo.”

“You’re not making the job any more difficult for him by splashing your movements all over the cable news, not to mention trending on Twitter.”

But, that one didn’t set well at all. “Listen, old friend, the Balrog was an unforeseen glitch. As to the birds and the Nazgul, neither of those were of my doing.”

Waffle completed, the silverware displayed in the cross pattern on the empty plate, Celeborn leaned back, cupping his tea mug. “I do not place blame, Estel, some trouble is to be expected considering. Yet, it would seem that an unusual number of mishaps have found the Ringbearer thus far. I suggest extra caution be paid from now on, especially with Saruman’s Uruk hai on the Ring’s trail.”

“Uruk hai.” The name left bitter on the tongue. “And what makes them so special?”

“Bred to withstand extremes in temperatures, they don’t tire as easily or require the same amount of food or rest as Mordor orcs. They may not be the sharpest crayons in the box, but they are fast, ruthless and genetically determined to retrieve the Ring for their master. Oh and now, due to Saurman’s meddling, his orcs are able to walk in the sunlight, without disturbing anyone, or even raising an eyebrow.”

The second cup of coffee offer gladly accepted. “You mean they look like us now? Human?”

“Not like your average computer nerd or insurance salesman, no. However, to pass along with other oddities that flock the streets of major metropolitan areas, then, yes, Saruman has indeed achieved his goal.”

“How are we to recognize them then?”

“I’m no expert on the subject, but my guess is they would be the ones chasing you.”

A sudden change in the room's atmosphere cut the “Smart ass” retort short. Conversation fell to hushed, reverent tones, if anyone braved a word at all. Celeborn, perfect posture guy, sat up taller.

“My husband, lingering over breakfast, I see.” Slender and long fingers trailed arm as Galadriel came to rest.

He brought the pale hand to his lips. “Just discussing Saruman’s latest treachery, dear.”

“Hardly a proper discussion topic for a meal, but unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

As she turned her face to Aragorn, Arwen stared back at him. He tried to hide the little catch in his throat. “Cannot imagine what he hopes to gain from sending out his own orcs.”

“Why the Ring, Estel.” And now it was Arwen’s smile that danced across her grandmother’s lips.

“To what end? Use it for himself? He’s even a bigger fool if he thinks Sauron will share.”

“Saruman’s lust for power has made him blind and incautious. Fool though he may be, he is still dangerous and must not be discounted.”

Celeborn moved his plate closer to his wife giving her easier access to the last of the fruit slices she’d been not so covertly snagging. “The route you have chosen, will it take you close to Isengard?”

Aragorn looked down at his hands, embarrassed to say he had yet to make a decision. He knew the choice of which road to take fell on his discretion now: east, down the coast, or west and further inland. Gandalf’s plan of slipping unnoticed between fell to ruins when he did, and now the Fellowship begged for guidance from its de facto leader, a man who had neither the answers they sought, or the desire to be followed. “Let’s just get Frodo out of New York first. Then I’ll decide.”

Galadriel pierced the freelancer with her glare, exposing every inadequacy for this new thrust upon him responsibility. “The Ringbearer depends on you, Aragorn. Do not fail him. Do not fail yourself.”

Here was one oath he could keep. “With my life, Lady, I have sworn to protect Frodo with my life.”

“And yet, I fear, in these troubled times, even that will prove wanting.”

“Well,” Celeborn filled the short and uncomfortable silence, “Where do you suppose the little chap is now?”

“In his room, I guess,” the topic change, away from his unworthiness, gratefully snatched, “Eating breakfast and packing, I hope.”

His plate completely clean, thanks to his wife’s nibbling, Celeborn stacked the empty dishes, one on top of the other, perfectly. “Along with Samwise, no doubt. Inseparable, those two. And the others, Jolly and Pop?”

“Merry and Pippin.” A good-natured swat from his wife. “Do not discount them so lightly, Celeborn, my love. They, too, may play an important role before the Quest reaches its final conclusion.”

“Yes, dear,” the answer tinged with rote platitudes, “But, do you not believe those two should take things a little more seriously? Not some spring break road trip they’re on, you know.”

“That’s what I like about them.” To Aragorn, both Merry and Pippin’s ‘who-the-hell-cares’ attitude refreshed compared to the rest of his traveling companions - Gimli and Legolas’ sniping wore thin the first five minutes, the cloud Boromir drug around with him turned everything gray, Sam with his constant worry over Frodo, and Frodo’s apparent need for Sam’s smothering. Only the two man comedy team of Merry and Pip, with their stupid jokes, bad impressions and silly games of Tig had kept Aragorn from sinking into a mood as dark as his usual countenance. “They make me laugh. And on that note,” unwinding his lanky frame from the bench, Aragorn grabbed his tray. “Time to roust the little chap and his friends.”

“My husband will take that for you, Aragorn.”

Celeborn looked at his wife. “I will?”

“Yes, you would be delighted.” This was not a request.

“Yes, Aragorn, I would be delighted.” Taking both trays, Celeborn left the table mumbling to himself. “’Till death do us part. Yeah, right.”

“This is for you, Aragorn,” she handed him a small package. “This does not compare to the jewel bestowed at Imladris. But, I hope it will serve you in some good purpose on your long journey to come.”

Without thought, his hand reached to his pocket, thumbing Arwen’s gift. _How did she know? Idiot, she knows everything in your head._ He blushed to think that the woman before him knew all his thoughts where her granddaughter was concerned. “Thank you.” He took the package and promptly averted his eyes.

“This is also for you.” A single piece of paper. “An email sent this morning. Arwen is certainly a head strong woman.” Galadriel’s eyes misted over with memory. “So like her mother in that respect.”

“Then Arwen should follow her mother’s example and go West.”

“She has something important keeping her here, Aragorn. Something her heart cannot do without.” Both Celeborn’s return and Galadriel’s beeper brought an end to the conversation. “I apologize. I must answer this one. Aragorn, do not leave without saying goodbye.”

He watched the pair of beautiful people leave the dining room, then fled in the opposite direction. He sought out and found a small, empty waiting room where he could open Galadriel’s gift and be alone in his thoughts.

A cloak with a finely jeweled clasp in the shape of a leaf spread out from the simple brown wrapping. He couldn’t decide what color it was. Grey, no green, no many colors played within the fabric as his hands smoothed its softness. So like Galadriel, this gift: ethereal on the outside, tough as nails, no doubt, its true nature. So like Galadriel and all her kind. _So like Arwen_.

Suddenly remembering, Aragorn fished the now crumpled paper out of this pocket.

 

 

   TO: [CarasGaladon@lothlorien.org](mailto:CarasGaladon@lothlorien.org)

   FROM: [Evenstar1@gmail.com](mailto:Evenstar1@gmail.com)

   0:5:34 10/1/13

   Aragorn:

   All my hopes are with you and Frodo as you travel south. Remember, you are your own person. No one is fated to repeat the mistakes of the    past simply b/c of heredity.

   As to our last conversation about my own travel plans, I say this: NO! :( Both to you and Daddy.

   Think good thoughts and dream good dreams. ;)

   Love you always,

 

   Arwen U.

 

 

_You should go._ His own words high jacked thoughts without warning, and it was a dangerous train he was hopping on here, Arwen possessing the ability to reduce him to a giggling schoolboy with just an arched eyebrow. _And a randy one with just a smile._ Betrayed by his own mind, though, memories so vivid they overloaded his senses and attacked the bulwark constructed to hold her back, and, thus defeated, Aragorn sank back into the blue corduroy couch surrendered to Arwen’s caress.

_“I don't want to,” bottom lip stuck out in a bratty pout._

_The party for Bilbo and Frodo tinkled behind them, the city roared below their feet. Not wishing to discuss personal matters in close proximity of over eager ears, Aragorn had brought his love to the night to continue a conversation he thought long over._

_“In the West you will be safe.”_

_“You’ve been talking to my father again, haven’t you?” Aragorn did not deny her accusation. “What is it with you two? Think I’m some kind of fragile thing that needs protecting? That I’m a bubble headed bimbo who doesn’t have two synapses to rub together to make a coherent thought?”_

_“Arwen, we only have your best interests -”_

_“Bullshit!” She stomped away to the edge of the balcony, “I’m not the prize at some carnival game to be won by the most stubborn.” The cool autumn breeze lifted her dark tresses, spinning them about, an exact picture of her stormy demeanor. “I have a mind, a soul, a heart, and each one is governed by me alone.”_

The corner of Aragorn’s mouth twitched upward as the vision of Arwen’s fiery eyes flamed in his mind. Her assessment of the situation had been correct. Before the party, Elrond had indeed cornered him and, in no uncertain terms, decreed Arwen would be taking the trip West, and it was his job to convince her of the inevitability of the journey. _Some council head, too scared of his own daughter._

_“Arwen, you know what we’re walking into to, where I must go, and I may not return.”_

_“And if that’s the case, I will grieve. But, the possibility of success is not totally out of the question, meleth, and should you return, I will rejoice. Either way it is I who will deal with the consequences.”_

_Sounds of Elrond’s voice through speakers snuck out of the party as if to remind Aragorn of his purpose. “To stay is to give up what is rightfully yours.”_

_“Simply because an accident of birth I have the right to immortality? While others face an existence with death as their final prize, I have the right to abandon them in this darkest of hours? My kind has lived with the others for many ages, Aragorn, and still we have learned nothing of true courage. It takes a brave man to walk towards his own demise, and cowardice to lean on tradition, using that as an excuse for turning away.”_

_The night wind brushed a shiver along her skin, and he crossed the balcony to wrap her in his warmth, the jasmine smell of her hair, the molding of their two bodies completely undoing him. “I don’t want to be the reason you stay, meleth,” he breathed into her delicate ear, “I can’t be.”_

_The heat nearly boiled over when Arwen rotated in his arms, pressing hips and firm breasts against him. “Wrong use of pronoun, love.” The fanciful necklace, silver and magic, of entwined leaves and starlight, usually adorning her neck, Aragorn found pressed into his hand. A mischievous smile, and her hand curled his fingers around. “It is ‘we’._ That _is reason to stay, and the reason I choose a mortal life.”_

Aragorn would find out about the commotion caused by the drunken Sam the next day. His own interest in the party ended at the very moment Arwen’s lips had met his.

And he had departed Rivendell still without a promise from Arwen to go West. Now Elrond held that problem in his hands, just as he had their future these past 70 years. Like characters in one of those cheesy romance novels: the thwarted lovers, kept apart by circumstances and duty, Arwen imprisoned in the tower, and he the stalwart hero, who must slay the dragon in order to prove his worth. _If only it were just Smaug I must defeat._

Rescuing Arwen’s gift from obscurity in his pocket, he placed the jewel about his neck, tucking it to his chest. He reread her message, then folding it carefully, slipped it into a small slit in his wallet where it would be safe from even the most probing of eyes. With the jewel hugging his heart, her words would cup his butt as he traveled. Draping his new cloak about his shoulders, Aragorn walked out, intent on making the Fellowship hurry. _The sooner we leave, the sooner this whole mess will be finished._ After nearly a lifetime of waiting, Aragorn was finally ready to begin the ending to their story.

 

 

******

 

_Was there anything as hedonistically satisfying as a long, hot shower?_ Frodo didn’t think so. Not able to indulge much at Bag End, Bilbo always complaining about the cost, Frodo seized every opportunity handed him to linger under pounding water, and this morning no exception. His skin gleaming red, fingers and toes just the right state of pruniness, Frodo emerged from the steam-choked bathroom satiated and utterly warm. Cool air brought goose bumps to his naked flesh and a shiver of pleasure joined in as he walked to the bed with its tangled and stained sheets. _Now,_ that _tops the hedonist scale hands down._

He was sore - _God! I’m sore!_ \- and sitting on the edge to put his shoes on became an exercise in futility as he struggled to find a comfortable position. _OK, should have read the WHOLE chapter on penetrative sex._

Sore, satisfied, silly in love and…different. Awareness dawning about 15 or so minutes by shower reckoning, this morning’s Frodo not the same as yesterday’s. Not large, not tiny, just a fundamentally Frodo alteration that went beyond mere virginity loss – though a extraordinary experience to be sure, tight jeans crotch accompanying the vivid memory.

_Then what…what has changed?_

What had indeed shifted Frodo’s teeth brushing reflection offered no clue – _nope, still the same, still a nerdy dweeb –_ as if finger could even be placed on that one amended spot. He knew not what nor where, why nor how even, just that, since last night’s activities, he was, he had, the difference there inside, vibrating, like refrigerator hum, or the plate tinkling of other diners, in the background, underneath, constant, an earworm on an endless loop – _almost like snatches of the nonsense Sam hums all the –_

Spit and head up snap.

_Sam? Sam. Sam!_

Though probably puttering making breakfast in the kitchen, in the bathroom he sang to Frodo.

_Here, Sam is, here, with me, inside me!_

Galadriel had spoken in his mind, but this…no words, nothing that concrete, just simple notes, strong and clear. Not The Ring either, its ubiquitous bribes of wealth and power discordant against this new melody’s promise of hope. Sam’s voice calling Frodo back from nightmare hell, Sam’s hand to warm morgul blade frozen one, Sam’s comfort at Gandalf’s loss, all good, all wonderful, Sam’s physical presence beside Frodo thoughout his ordeal a gift unparalleled.

Yet, this, this I-tunes mind meld, in a world that harbored unspeakable horrors, the orcs, the balrog, the Lidless Eye, this inexplicable, miraculous joy of ultimate intimacy – that would never be questioned lest it be switched off – all happened because of sex?

_Yeah, we’re doing that again. **A lot**._

Contacts blinked in, hair finger-combed messy, Frodo pondered whether to share his news – _would others understand, would the music change if he knew –_ finally deciding to be selfish.

_Mine alone, at least for a while, my own Sirius XSam._

“Bagel’s in the toaster, coffee in the pot,” Sam’s breakfast specials announced from the couch when Frodo emerged, “Sorry no Philly’s, but there’s a small thing of butter in the fridge.”

Even the lack of cream cheese could not mar Frodo’s morning. _Sing to me, Sam!_ Deciding to eat his bagel dry, he dumped half the sugar bowl into his mug and went to join Sam in front of the TV. “How do eat you eat that stuff?”

Dragging his attention away from ESPN, Sam glanced down at his cinnamon raisin oatmeal. “It’s good for you. An excellent source of fiber, as well as low in cholesterol and saturated - Hey!” If Frodo did that thing with his lips and tongue around the spoon again, he could steal Sam’s oatmeal every morning. “You like?”

Smacking his lips, Frodo couldn’t decide. “Don’t know. Let me have another taste.” He pushed aside the offered spoon in favor of Sam’s mouth, tongue visiting one of his new favoritest places.

“Well?”

“That tasted a whole lot better.”

With their reciprocity contract still binding, Frodo held up his breakfast. “No thanks. Already know what bagels taste like. I prefer Frodo to them any day.” Sam pulled his lover down to the couch beside him, but his playfulness turned to concern at Frodo’s wince.. “You OK? What’s wrong?”

Still embarrassed to mention his ‘souvenir’ from last night’s trip to paradise , Frodo breezed right by it. “Just a little sore, what’s this?” Up again, he bounded over to the four packages leaning against the front entrance wall. “Ooooo, they’re for us!” Bagel stuck in his mouth, Frodo brought the mystery back.

“Found them there when I came out this morning,” Sam had pillow at the ready should his flighty lover forget and sit down hard again.

The idea of someone sneaking in their room while they slept, or worse, rankled Sam to no end. What he and Frodo had shared last night belonged to them alone. Of course, when he awoke this morning, with a sticky and mussed Frodo sleeping open mouthed beside him, he became possessed with the urge to run out into the hall, grab the phone, press the intercom and shout to one and all, one nurse in particular, that last night sexual perfection had been achieved, others need not apply, Thank you very much, no photographs, please!

Setting his breakfast on the floor by his feet, he snagged Frodo, bringing him onto his lap. Fitting Frodo’s legs to the outside of his, Sam cupped ass, holding it like the most expensive crystal. “I love you, Frodo, love you more than anything.”

Winding arms behind HIS favorite body, Frodo brought their foreheads together. “More than pizza and beer?”

“Yeah, way better.”

Kiss, sweet and brief.

“Better than, say, warm towels straight from the dryer?”

“Uh, huh.”

Kiss, hint of tongue.

“Better than the Yankees?”

“Well…”

“Wrong answer, Gamgee!”

Kiss, deep, smoldering, tight, wet.

“Ah, young love.”

Sam pulled away at Pip’s voice, but Frodo held on steadfastly, his reprimand for Sam’s incorrect response not complete.

“We could come back later.”

Hoping to dislodge the guy from his body, Sam stood up – hospitality required host’s attention, even if Merry and Pippin sat on a grafted branch of the family tree – but, more importantly, if Frodo continued, legs wound around, arms wound around, lips and tongue wicked wound around Sam’s mouth, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from walking back to the bedroom, throwing Frodo down and repeating his performance of last night. No time now, Fellowship’s departure imminent, and Sam would not be forced to rush through Frodo. No, making love to Frodo required time, patience, a steady hand, a will of iron not to pop the first moment his… so, he bit down on Frodo’s bottom lip. Hard.

“Fuck!” Frodo let go. “That hurt!”

“Sorry, only way to get your attention,” Sam apologized, deep breaths required for calm. New kind of smolder in Frodo’s eyes did not go unnoticed, however.

“Thought you guys would be too tired after last night.” Merry made himself at home, a slouchy lounge on the other couch.

Sam reached for his oatmeal bowl. “You’ve had breakfast yet?” Sam stopped reaching for his oatmeal bowl. “Why’d you think we’d be tired?”

“Thin walls in this place, dudes.”

Both Sam and Frodo pointed to each other. “HIM!”

“Just coffee for me, Sam. If you’ve made some. Well, whoever it was, like castrating bulls, and ya’ll woke me out of a sound sleep, the second time in one night, I might add. Had to wake Merry, too, didn’t want to be the only one not getting any z’s, Do you wonder where we’re going next? I know Aragorn said something about New Jersey, but Mordor is much further south than that, isn’t it? You got presents, too, I see! This little number I’m wearing arrived on our doorstep early this morning. I think it goes with my eyes. What to you think?” Pip twirled, sending his new cloak in a breeze around him.

“Uh…riiiiiight, I’ll get the coffee.” Sam retreated to the kitchen in disbelief that anyone could say all that without taking one breath. _Maybe that’s what Merry sees in him._

Privacy’s decorum bypassed Pip’s unfortunate livestock comment, though sympathy did pull hips inward, Frodo examining his and Sam’s plain, brown packages. “So, that’s what’s in them.”

“Open yours and find out.” Pip planted himself on the other end of the couch, throwing feet up in Merry’s lap. “We both got a cloak, but Merry didn’t want to wear his, thought it looked too gamer geeky. But, I find it rather dashing. Musketeer like, ya’ know?”

Sam stepped out of the kitchen.

“Go ahead, open yours, and then we can all be the four Musketeers. Frodo, you’re D’Artagnan, Sam would definitely be Athos. I would want to be Aramis, but that would leave Porthos for Merry and he just doesn’t seem like a Porthos.”

Sam stepped back to the kitchen taking the mug of caffeinated coffee with him.

“Unless you wanted to be Cardinal Richelieu, give into your dark side and all, Ooo! I know! You can be Milady, corsets and garters and -”

“Shut up, Pip.”

He did instantly.

Merry’s words not harsh, and his caress of Pippin’s thigh softened lingering edges. “Pip only does that, talk non-stop, when he’s nervous.”

“What do you got to be so nervous about, Pip?”

“This.” Merry pulled a long, sharp blade from its hiding place against his calf.

“Whoa!” Sinking down to the arm of the couch by Frodo, Sam’s eyes wide as Merry turned the blade, catching the morning sun on its deadly edge.

“This came along with the cloaks. Both got one, though Pip didn’t want to carry his.”

“I know what a weapon like that is for, and it ain’t opening no letters.” His eyes flicked to the dagger in Merry’s hand, next to his lover’s face held fascinated by the blade, then back down to his twitching hands. “Just don’t like the idea of being forced to use it, that’s all.”

“Well, always be prepared,” Merry shoved the knife back in the sheath with a click, covering it with his jeans. “Then you have no surprises.”

“You and the freaking Boy Scouts.” A particular painful memory of the one day Frodo had spent as a Cub Scout. It all had to do with merit badges, father/son projects and a fight. He still carried the scars.

“I am the Boy Scouts, Frodo. Eagle Scout since seventeen, But, enough about constrictive parental expectations, open yours, guys. What did you get from Mrs. Santa?”

“Never got a present from the Clauses before,” Sam tore at the brown paper, “though eight days of them are pretty damn - rope.”

“Well, that can be very useful, Sam.” Pip’s usual sunny disposition back now, the constantly entwining fingers nerves only tell. “Frodo, can you think of any uses for Sam’s rope?”

“Many, Pip, many.”

The smolder sprang to life again, and Sam watched Frodo flick tongue out across bruised lip quadrupling Sam’s appreciation for the bizarre gift. “And a box,” he pulled it from the bottom of the package. “A small wooden box with a G on the top.”

“Could stand for Gamgee,” Merry posited.

“Or Galadriel,” was Pip’s suggestion.

Sam looked in the box. “Or just goddamn dirt. Youse guys get fancy-schmancy knives, and I get rope and goddamn dirt.” A doozy of a Thank You card already being written.

“You could have gotten socks and underwear, Sam.”

“Your turn, Frodo.”

With little kid joy, he tore into the package. Smaller than Sam’s, it contained a brief note and – “What the -” Glowing in the palm of his hand, Galadriel’s gift warmed Frodo’s skin. What word? What word would best describe the small glass vial? _Ethereal? Magical? Mystical? No, timeless._ That’s what Frodo beheld, a timelessness even deeper than the stolen moment lived in Galadriel’s eyes.

“You want to share with the rest of the class, Mr. Baggins?”

With regret, Frodo tore his eyes away. “Oh, sorry. Here, just this.”

The inner sparkling intensified when kissed by the sunlight, even the tiniest of turns started the rainbow dance on the far wall.

“Oh, rope AND a small bottle of oil,” Pip was busting with sexual innuendo, “Lady Galadriel is a saucy vixen, isn’t she?”

“It’s not oil, Pip.” Frodo handed his gift over to Sam for inspection while he read the note.

“Perfume, maybe?” Sam squinted as if that would help to explain the vial’s mystery. “Liquid soap?”

“I’ve got to go, get out.” Snapping up off the couch, Frodo walked straight to the door, then back again. “I need to, uh, ya’ know.” Patting each pocket, he found what he needed. “I’ll be down, same place.” A quick, yet tender kiss given to Sam, then back to the door. “Alone, ya’ know, just need…” Frodo gone, his sentence unfinished.

“I hope you understood, ‘cause that completely lost me.”

“Went out to smoke,” Sam explained, retrieving the note from where it had fluttered from Frodo’s hands. “Needs alone time, that’s all.”

_Ringbearer,_

_In your hands, you hold a touch of a most beloved star. Earendil it was once named. I give this gift to you in the hopes it will be a light to you in the darkest of places._

_Aiya Earendil elenion ancalima_

_Galadriel_

“And you’re not freaking out about him leaving?” Merry leaned in and watched the liquid in the vial spin slowly as Pip turned it between his fingers. Rope, a box of dirt and a tiny glass bauble. The dagger seemed monumental by comparison.

Sam read the note several times, but couldn’t figure out what had upset Frodo. “Uh? Oh, no, I know where he’s going.” He collected his gifts to shove into his already stuffed backpack. Taking the vial from Pip, he gingerly carried Frodo’s gift and snuggled it amongst spare clothes. “Besides, I can feel him now.”

“I know,” no innuendo in there at all now, “We told you we heard it all.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No, dickhead. I can feel him here” A hand to his heart. “Frodo’s there, with me.”

Sometime between fuck and sleep, Frodo had arrived. Somewhere between heart and soul, Frodo now lived. A little odd at first, like tiny hairs breezing across his skin, Sam and the heebie-jeebies had made breakfast together, jumping at things not perceived out of eye’s corner, but witnessed internally. Frodo had stood in the shower, going on twenty minutes, yet, also in the kitchen right beside Sam at the sink, the microwave, the coffee maker. And even now, several floors away, Frodo exuberant bright was still here, warm and loving, his hand curled tightly in Sam’s.

He didn’t mention the new connection ‘cause how to describe it without sounding creepy stalker. He really didn’t want to elaborate because he couldn’t, didn’t understand himself, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to question away the only thing he ever truly desired.

And it was granted by sex.

_Sooooo, happy my wish list is very, VERY long._

Compensation maybe, for all the shit past and future, or someone’s – Galadriel, that Illuvatar guy maybe – balancing scales heavy with evil by gifting Sam the divine. Whatever the motivation, Sam accepted without pause, Frodo would always be with him now, and no one, nothing, could ever step between them.

“Guys.” Legolas stuck his head in the room, gently tapping on the door, “Aragorn wants us all downstairs in ten.”

“New toy?” Merry pointed to the bow slung across the man’s back.

“A Scepter Three, brace height eight and three-eighths inches, FPS of three-hunfred, and Easton A/C/E carbon fiber bonded arrows, size fourteen-hundred.” Hands caressed the metal, eyes devouring the sleek lines of the deadly weapon. “A gift from Galadriel.”

_GodDAMN dirt._ Sam shoved his box deep into his pack.

“Downstairs in…oh, you’re here.” Gimli’s smile slipped to a frown when spying Legolas.

“Say, Gimli!” A Pippin bum rush to the door, “What did Galadriel give you?”

The question that built an impenetrable wall. “What makes you think she gave me anything?”

Each pointed to in turn. “Dagger, dagger, rope and dirt, bow, Frodo a glass bottle of sparkly liquid. You?”

Hand fluttered to the small white envelope sticking out of his shirt pocket, but Gimli stopped short of touching, only hovered, treating the mundane article with religious icon awe. “Nothing really, just something personal. Something between the Lady and myself.”

Now, going on pre-Institute behavior, Sam knew, this would be the time that Legolas normally would sling a barb at the engineer. Something like, “The only thing between you and the Lady are several steps on the evolutionary scale.” Or, “Something personal, eh? Then you are right, it is nothing.” It would appear, however, that the time spent within the Institute’s walls had not only connected him to Frodo, but mellowed Legolas as well.

“The Lady bestows her gifts on only those who are the most deserving. Whatever the gift, I am sure it is compensatory to the worth of the receiver.”

“Did the world just tip off its axis,” Merry gaped, “or did you compliment him, Legolas?”

Smiling enigmatically, he placed a brief, yet friendly hand on the engineer’s shoulder. “Our journey is a long one, gentlemen. Do not wish to make it longer with silly arguments. Come, Gimli. Downstairs in eight now.” The new and decidedly odd pair walked out, Gimli’s voice the last to leave. “So, tell me, Legolas, what did you do then? I mean when you found your data to be skewed?”

“Obviously the medicine cart visited every room, but ours,” Merry shook his head, “Or maybe I visited twice and this is all some drug induced hallucination.”

Pip snaked his arm around Merry, steering him toward the door. “No drugs, Merry, more like this place, I think. When you’re here, things are different, people are different and outside worries just don’t matter. Or maybe time just slows down enough for you to catch up.”

“You took three trips, Pip.”

“See you downstairs, Sam.”

Dishes rinsed and deposited in the dishwasher, Sam made another quick pass through the suite checking for anything left behind. In the bathroom, Frodo’s toothbrush and glasses lonely on the sink. “Can’t forget these.” In the bedroom, the fuck tangled sheets he left as is, a monument of the bond forged there – _and the incredible sex –_ but, sticking out from the tossed aside duvet, the lube. “Definitely can’t forget -”

A shoulder brush, arm pulled for attention.

Connected less than 5 hours, utterly devoted more than 3 years, of course Sam recognized the touch instantly.

“Be right there, Frodo.”

Careful to see all the lights turned out, Sam hefted both packs and left the room in haste, grabbing a little something for Frodo along the way. _Thanks bunches, Galadriel for the rope, the goddamn dirt, and this cushy pillow._.

******

 

 

Digital images scrolled across the laptop. Philadelphia raced beneath him, yet he remained undisturbed, the soundproof windows towering around keeping the rabble at bay. Enjoying his second cup of tea, attention focused solely on the just received pictures. He cared nothing for the lush landscape of the first image, all those resources wasted on flowering sentimentality, zeroing in on the two figures in the bottom left corner instead.

Denthor's whelp was perhaps talking to someone, but whoever it was must be much smaller, a clear view impossible at that angle.

Another image, a close-up, had the whelp turning away, revealing there was someone there, yet the face remained half-hidden in shadows.

Third image - Whelp and what could be a child, still shrouded, and joined by three others. The dumpy one did not even blip his memory, quickly dismissed. The others, a different story. “Those two I recognize. Idiots, both of them.”

Fourth - the pretender of Gondor, with one of those condescending passers, giving directions to the idiots. Whelp had moved out of frame, and much to his irritation Dumpy Guy stood directly in front of the still unidentified person.

Good picture of Passer, Dumpy Guy and heavily bearded guy following a blurry Pretender in motion. Not even a glimpse of the unseen anymore.

Next, Pretender pointing to something out of the shot.

Next, Pretender talking to the idiots.

Next, Pretender handing something to the…a parcel, a package, a -

“And there we are, confirmation.”

Last one showed only the empty sidewalk of the Institute with its bright yellow honeysuckle and purple pansies looking much too cheerful for his tastes. This last picture was useless.

“So clever, old friend, and so like you to attempt to hide The Ring in the most unlikely of places. With one of your students, according to the reports. I am still several steps ahead of you, however.” He recalled number four in Photoshop. Zooming in, he copied, then pasted to a file, and gmailed his deputy - crisp, clear images of Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took

Victory sweetened his now tepid tea.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for two week late posting. This chapter required more edits than normal.
> 
> Thank you for all those reading, and a BIG thank you for all the kudos and comments! Exhilarating to know others are taking this journey with me.
> 
> WARNING!!! Some brief non-con sex in this chapter.
> 
> ENJOY!!!

 

 

 

 

A quick flick of the thumb: flame. Slight presence between two fingers, open mouth, fold lips around. Flame to end, suck in. Tongue clicks on teeth, mouth open, inhale, lips purse, blow out. Eyes close. Tingly fog seeps into head. Flick of the thumb.

“Bum one of those?”

He looked up at Boromir. The man’s face showed friendly, his posture relaxed. Frodo wasn’t fooled.

“Thanks.”

He tried not to jump as the man’s hands cupped around his.

“Beautiful morning, what’s left of it, anyway.”

You can always tell when someone is really a smoker. The inhale and exhale. Both must be slow, the seconds between long, cherishing the feel of the nicotine in your lungs. Boromir blew out lazy. A heavy sigh.

“Won’t be sorry to leave this place, I can tell you.”

Stealing a glance, Frodo watched Boromir stare off in the distance, leaning back and up turned foot on the tan bricks of the wall. He didn’t look down at all; Frodo could feel the man’s gaze nonetheless.

“Be very glad to get home. Won’t you? That’s right, this _is_ your home.”

Not normally a chain smoker, Frodo immediately lit another one, just to have something to do with his hands. They shook, the flame tripping over the end of his cigarette. Shoved the empty one, clenched fist, deep in his pocket.

“First visit to New York. Can’t say I’m all that impressed, really. Of course, didn’t have the guided tour, did I?”

This isn’t what he had planned after dashing out of the room. Alone, that’s what he had wanted. Alone to deal, alone to cope, alone to wallow in self pity and act like a child over this tremendous burden put on him. Get all the ‘oh, poor me’s’ out of his system so he could act the brave Ringbearer in front of the others. He had not wanted company. Probably why he had snuck around the side of the building and hid among the AC units and back stairwells, to avoid probing eyes. To deal with the decision he had made, to bask in the memory of Sam, of their fantastic night together. Just to have some peace and smoke in private. He hadn’t wanted company. He got Boromir.

“You’ve ever been to Minas Tirith? Seen the White Tower gleaming as the sun rises over the river?”

Boromir sighed and Frodo watched him roll the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. He held it that way,  not like Frodo, with second and index, but the fancy-schmancy way.

“You really should come to Minas Tirith, to visit. I could show you all the sights. Hit the best places, shown by a native son.”

The alarm bells in his head nearly deafening. Add the sudden rise in the Ring’s hum and Frodo’s skull pounded from within. He shouldn’t be here with him, this was not safe, not right. This man wanted it, the waves of desire to possess shimmered off Boromir like a late August parking lot, twisting the image behind.

“Frodo!”

Both turned to see Aragorn striding toward them, coat and long hair flying in his haste. Nearly growling, Boromir flicked the cigarette butt out into the lawn, then, nodding to Frodo, breezed past Aragorn to return to the front of the building. Three times his path was invaded: by Merry, then Pippin, which he deftly side stepped, and Sam, who blundered right through to get to Frodo.

“What did he want, Frodo?”

“Just to bum a cigarette, Aragorn, that’s all. Leave it be, OK?”

Yeah, by his deep frown, that explanation totally did not convince, however, tight schedule harangued, and truth telling was shuffled to the back of line, Aragorn directing Merry and Pippin to trip provisions duty, Legolas to weapon cache check, and Gimli to steer The Ringbearer and Sam toward the boats.

“Boats?”

Flick of the thumb. Flame, open mouth, lips purse. Suck in, tongue on teeth, mouth open, lips purse, blow. Nerves calm. Flick of the thumb.

“Bum another?”

Frodo handed over the lighter this time, not touching the man a desire overwhelming.

“That was fucking crazy! Rowing down the East River! Faramir will never believe this!”

No physical contact, though Boromir squatted down, below Frodo, and there could be no avoiding eye contact now.

“Faramir, that’s my little brother, wanted to come on this trip, instead of me. But, Father insisted on my coming. I should have insisted otherwise.”

Having trouble making his stiff hands work properly, Frodo fumbled with the lighter, dropping it to the yellow grass. Nabbed immediately, cigarette now forced to lean down to flame, lean close to Boromir.

“Only been gone a week now and I miss it, ya’ know? Never thought I would be homesick.”

Sickening, boiling and bubbling, the craving, the madness, Frodo needed to cough, gag, heave the malice out. _He would know then, he would take advantage then._ And nowhere to run, really, except through low hedges and flower beds that lined this section of the East River Park, between heartbeats, on his face, mouth full of dirt, grabbing hands on The Ring. _Show no fear, no weakness, don’t let him know I know._ Ignoring oar responsible stinging hands, Frodo pocket drove trembling hand, choosing to find his scuffed boots an interesting reason to not meet the other man’s gaze.

“You want to come see my city, don’t you, Frodo? You want to come to Minas Tirith?”

_How ‘bout no fucking way?_ Boromir’s gaze lanced clean through, the once handsome face twisted torn, fractured by greedy desire, and he could take no more, Frodo squeezing eyes tight, blocking visage, but not venomous avarice. _It’s the Ring, perverting, corrupting. This is what the Ring will do to them all. This is what the Ring is doing to_ me.

“Foolish to even think of getting through the Black Gates. I know! I’ve seen them! A death wish!” And extending hand. “Come with me to Minas Tirith, Frodo.” A reaching hand. “Come with me, Frodo.” A snatching hand. “Come to me, Isildur’s -”

“Here you are! Lunch time!” Sam arrived at Frodo’s side, dismissing the large man with a curt nod of his head. “Boromir.”

Standing, barely contained contempt smiled as cigarette ground under boot heel. “Sam.”  A glance back as he walked away bore witness to the tender kiss shared. Smile sleazed with new perspicacity.

Own lunch across lap, Sam pulled Frodo by the hand to gingerly sit beside him on the perfectly placed pillow. “What did he want this time?”

“We were just talking, that’s all.”

“ ‘Bout what?”

“Minas Tirith.”

“What about it?”

“It’s white.”

“So I’ve heard. And?”

“And what, Sam?”

“See, I ask a question, and then you reply. It’s called conversation, Frodo, and I’m trying like hell to have one here.”

“I know, Sam.”

“So, once again… _and_?”

What could he say? Minas Tirith on the surface, possession’s obsession the dark belly subtext? Nothing had happened. Boromir had chatted up home, then walked away. Filth stained his inside only. _Do I accuse him over a feeling, make a big deal about what he might attempt? When I’m gone, will Boromir even matter?_

“And he bummed a cigarette. That’s all.”

“Since when does Boromir smoke?”

“How the fuck should I know? Ask him.”

A pointed stare across the green caught one aimed right back. “I will. Bet on it.”

Their picnic spot, a small copse of autumn clothed trees, smelled of old fertilizer and diesel fuel, and spun already Boromir turmoiled stomach in the opposite direction. Add in the ass burn from small wooden seat, shoulder ice sharding from trying to keep up, The Ring’s omnipresent tug, lack of sleep – _last night sooooo worth it, though –_ and the incredibly huge and ever looming elephant neck breathing – his imminent breaking from the Fellowship – and even favoritest guilty pleasure cheesesteak extra onions curdled unappealing, Frodo picking at the roll instead, doughy balls bouncing around his boots.

_And it only gets fucking worse from here._

The boats had brought them unmolested down the island of Manhattan and closer to the roads leading anonymously out of the city. Public transportation would have, of course, provided faster progress, but, to Aragorn’s reasoning, both subway and bus had the potential innocents that Sauron’s minions, the ones that Legolas continually reminded everyone were catching up, would lose no sleep over slaughtering to gain their objective. Taxis, too, would have sped their journey along, but, all the Fellowship fitting in one wasn’t happening, and separation, a given in New York City traffic, just spread their already thin defense line to the snapping point. So, that left rowing to East River Park, and now walking, and walking and more walking, the precise route still a mystery, final destination for one member fate sealed.

_By myself, I know, I must, all that’s left is when._

“Ya’ know, crazy as it sounds, those shrinks make one hell of a -” Mouthful of sandwich finally noticed Frodo’s sandwich art, the bread ball gallery crowded. “What, don’t like lunch?”

“No, it’s fine, I’m just -” _Scared shitless, lonely already, and fucking sore as hell!_ The self-administered Morgul wounded shoulder rub ineffectual on many levels. “Not really hungry, I guess.”

 “Here, Frodo, let me do that.” Lunch quickly dropped, kneeling behind, Sam’s hands working their magic on Frodo’s aches and pains. “Don’t know what Aragorn was thinking, making you row like that. Fucking nuts.”

“Wanted to pull my own weight, Sam.” _Must learn to do for myself, without Sam, must learn to fend for myself, without Sam, must be indepe…damn that feels so good!_ Under Sam’s ministrations, a puddle of melted Frodo sighed. _But, not just yet._ “Not a wuss, you know.”

“You’re the strongest person I know, Frodo.” Nudge whispered close to ear. “But, even you must eat something once and a while.”

“OK, how about corned beef?” A repeat of this morning’s taste test. “That’s all the lunch I need, Sam.”

“No wonder you’re so skinny.”

“Take care, Frodo.” Legolas advice from directly above, “your actions do not go unobserved.”

No need to look, he knew already. “So, Boromir, likes to watch. Big fucking deal.”

“Yes, but just what has garnered his keen attention is perhaps a matter of concern.”

Keen attention, what hung around his neck, old news. Suddenly pricked perverse, Frodo two-handed grabbed Sam’s face. _Watch this, asshole._ Three minutes later, he came up for air.

“Damn, Frodo,” not a complaint, per se, Sam swiping trickled down spit off his chin, “that kind of kiss needs a heads up next time.”

“What, you didn’t like?”

“Really?” Stupid ass question. “But, I like to keep private things private, if you get my meaning.”

“Listen to him, Frodo.” More Legolas advice. “Discretion and valor and all that.”

“Let’s go guys! Got to get moving again!” Aragorn rallied the troops. “Stick in your pairs, don’t lag behind, and keep sharp eyes for the White Hand.”

Pippin looked at his. “Whose white hand?”

“Saruman’s. His Uruk-hai are coming for The Ring.”

Impossibly close to Frodo already, Sam stepped closer still. “Stay by me, OK, so I know you’re safe.”

_I can’t stay, Sam. To know **you’re** safe, I can’t._

“Hold on a damn minute,” a little clarification needed here, “You’re telling us _now_ that there’s something chasing us besides Ringwraiths and orcs?”

“Yes, Merry, out of Isengard the Uruk-hai have come, stronger, faster, more vicious, more cruel then any Mordor orc, and determined to find The Ring for their master.”

“I heard uglier, too.” Gimli’s added layer.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” The White Hand matched Merry’s face. “What the fuck are we standing around for, then?” He yanked Pippin into motion. “Let’s go, people, move!”

“What he said.” Aragorn, and the rest, following the Fellowship’s new point. “To Chinatown.”

“Chinatown?”

Flick of the thumb. Flame, mouth, lips, suck, tongue, mouth, lips, blow. Flick of the thumb.

“Frodo.”

He held out the pack without looking.

After the punch, it took a few moments for focus to return.

“Bring the Ring home, Frodo, where it belongs.”

_Bathroom._ He had gone into a local dive, Gimli right behind, to take a piss. Snuck out the back, try to smoke alone again. Boromir must have followed.

“The Ring, Frodo, give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you need.”

Hot breath, rough hands, weight behind digging scratched cheek harder into filthy wall. Too late now, probably, spread eagle, shirt shoved to armpits, jeans snatched down to knees, the grunts in his ear out muscling ten to one. He fought back anyway.

“Goddamn, fuck, off, get, fuck OFF!”

Hair grabbed, head pounded against the brick for his effort.

“Saw it, Frodo, saw it in your eyes. Kissing that idiot, that dumpy, nobody idiot, you really wanted this, want me.”

Mouth slobbering in his ear, arms held above by one fist, the other pumping savagely below.

“Give it to me, Frodo, give in to me.”

“Stop…stop _…”_ \- too much, couldn’t move, the pain, the humiliation, too much, couldn’t breathe, the stench, the fear, couldn’t think – “stop…Boro – _please…”_ – _I…no more…I can’t…any –_

A tune, a melody, cooling comfort for sanity, the ass kick for courage.

“You little shit!”

Back of head brick slammed, Frodo tossed around, throat squeezed by the hand with his blood oozing bite mark.

“Give It to me!”

No nails to scratch for release, no strength to force withdraw, too weak to struggle, no sight anymore to watch his murderer’s joyful smile, life-saving attempts fell away.

“I want The Ring!”

_The Ring!_

_“That’s right, Frodo Baggins, I will save you.”_

Flick of the thumb.

Frodo disappeared.

 

 

*********

 

 

“We should not linger here, Aragorn.” Legolas bounced nervously upon the balls of his feet, eyes darting up and down Pearl Street. “It is not safe.”

“I’ll go check on them!” Pip bouncing right along with Legolas.

“Wait,” Aragorn cautioned, “just a moment more before – OK, here’s Gimli.” Out of The Argonath, a little Greek place on the other side of the street where they had stopped to use the facilities, jogging back over to the Fellowship.

“But, where's Frodo?” Merry looked expectantly at the door across the street that remained disconcertingly closed. “I don’t see Frodo.”

“Thought he came out here,” Gimli reclaimed his heavy pack from Legolas, “Got out of the stall, he wasn't there. I just assumed…”

“Uh, FYI, Boromir's gone, too,” Pip observed.

Bolting up, Sam in panic mode. “Frodo's in trouble!”

“Don’t, Sam, stay right -”

Too late. Sam across the street, through the traffic, on a beeline for the restaurant’s entrance –“Frodo!”- then dropped like a rock, stiff on the sidewalk, a departing patron stepping over without a word.

“SAM!” Pip's turn to dodge traffic, deaf to Aragorn's orders.

“Pippin, don’t you -what, am I talking to myself here?”

“He's gone!” Crazy, with fear, hyperventilating. “Frodo's gone, can't feel him!”

“What's he mean, Frodo's gone?” Another disregarding Aragorn member reached Pippin’s side, Gimli hard pressed to understand how a simple trip to drain the dragon could go south so fast. “I don’t understand.”

“Something between them. Fucking strange, but when it comes to Frodo, take Sam's word for it.”

“He's gone, Pip. Frodo's gone.”

“We must find a more secluded place, gentlemen.” Aragorn, who had apparently ignored himself, stopping traffic dead both ways for the remaining to reach street’s other side, now attempted to shield fallen comrades from the Lower Manhattan later afternoon pedestrian push. “We’re attracting too much attention.”

“Frodo!” Pippin’s rocking comfort unnoticed by distraught Sam. “FRODO!”

“Nah, you think?”

“Like where?” Legolas somehow covered all directions at once, eyes on a constant sidewalk sweep. “Options are limited.”

“Back to the Park?” With a scowl and growl, Gimli persuaded the curious to just keep moving. “Back to the boats?”

“And eat up precious time that we don’t have to spare by back tracking?”

“Uh, Aragorn…” The eerie glow from Frodo’s pack again, and Merry knew what that meant.

“Shit!” And Aragorn did, too. “Legolas, Sam. Follow me!”

Up in a firefighter’s carry, over Legolas’ shoulder, as if he weighed next to nothing and off without effort after the retreating Aragorn. “Move, people!”

Back down the sidewalk, to the right of hot dog vendor, plow into Hare Krishnas, around the corner, dodge by the dumpsters, through the alley way to –

“In here!”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Their past luck abysmal at best, Merry definately against the parking deck idea. “There’s got to be a better location than this.”

“Easily defended,” Aragorn reloaded, “only one way in.”

“And only one way out.”

Grieving Sam set gently in a dark corner, Legolas wasted no time in preparing his bow, drawing out his quiver full of the carbon-cored arrows. “Stay close to Sam,” instructions for Pippin, “Don't allow him to leave.”

“Hold on a fucking minute! Where are you guys going?”

“To find Frodo,” Aragorn answered, face slashed by dark, “Don't move. Don't want to have to go chasing after you next.” A flash of steel and they exited, taking the heavy firepower with them.

“Well, isn't this just fucking great!” Curse swallowed by the heavy air. “Leave us here with nothing! Thanks shitloads!”

“What do we do now, Merry?”

Not the same, this one had cheery signs pointing to Park and Exit, a dedicated gate for monthly subscribers, only day old strewn trash, yet exactly the same, tons of concrete, the smell of exhaust, and an opening maw of darkness for hidden flame and horror. And they were stuck here. Alone.

“Wait, I guess.”

Down beside Sam, Pippin followed Merry’s lead. “OK, we just wait. Just wait. This is us waiting. Nothing to do but wait. They’ll come back, I know they will, they’ll come back and all we have to do is wait. Just wait. Waiting…waiting… wait - how long has it been now, Merry?”

Sulky insolence loitering at deck entrance, the only patch of sunlight. “Don’t know, Pip, five, ten minutes, maybe?”

“OK, then it should be soon, they’ll be back soon. With Boromir, and Frodo, the Fellowship reunited again when they get back. Which will be soon, I just know it. They’ll be back for us. Soon, real soon, when will they be back, Merry?”

“Don’t know Pip.”

“OK, but it will be soon, I’m sure, really fucking soon. They’ll come back for us, and we’ll get out of this place, and go to New Jersey, and then maybe catch a plane, or rent a limo, or even leave the driving to Greyhound, just no more walking, hate walking, like hiking, mountain trail, Appalachian trial, love that, love the woods, but not walking, just walking, boring, not that it’s been boring the walking we’ve been doing, running really, lots of running, tired of running, so fucking tired, how long now, Merry?”

“Don’t know.”

Fetal ball Sam checked secure, Pippin’s waiting became pacing, back and forth across the stained floor. “Sure as hell not gonna run all the way to Mordor, that’s for damn sure, to Mordor, drop the fucking Ring, just like you told Sam last night, drop the goddamn thing, then home. Home! God, I want to go home. Not Tennessee home, though that would be great, see the family, see the Smokies, eat some grits. God, I miss grits! Just can’t get good grits up here, you Yankees just don’t know from good grits, butter all meltin’ , bits a bacon and cheese stirred in there.”

“You’re babbling, Pip.”

Circles now, Pippin ever tightening paced circles. “Grits and BBQ and sweet tea, which the Lord made on the eighth day, ya’ know, miss them, miss them all, want to see them again, home, and our apartment! Miss our place, we’ve been gown so long, so fucking long, want to have morning coffee out on the fire escape, check on Mr. Gonzales – make sure he’s taking his medications – feed our fish, we’ll have to buy milk, though, I’m sure what’s in the fridge has gone sour by now, and that annoying fucking drip in the bathroom must -”

“Pip, shut up.”

Faster and faster, circles smaller and smaller. “Want to go home, come on, Merry, please, let’s just go, don’t want to wait, fucking hate waiting, waiting down here, in the dark, the dark parking deck like the one Gandalf died and those horrible things came out of the shadows, and the blood, and the flame, and the screams, down here in the dark, dying in the dark, oh, Christ, we’re going to die, down here, here, right here, we’re going to -”

“SHUT UP!”

The slap echoed off the barren concrete.

“Merry?” Pip's eyes filled with tears of disbelief. Merry had never struck him, ever, not even in play. His palm felt the heat of the blow on his cheek. “Merry?”

“Sorry, shit, I’m sorry.” Eyes also welled up, Merry pulled his lover into a violent hug. “You just wouldn't shut up. Had to do something.”

“I'm scared, Merry,” Pip clung on desperate, “Scared shitless.”

“Never would have known, Pip.” Merry clung back, taking as much strength as he was giving.

“Frodo!”

Too quick again, Sam, one minute inert and unresponsive, the next a flurry of movement catching both Merry and Pip off guard.

“Sam, no! You can't go!”  Pip caught a fleeing arm, hanging on, “Aragorn said to stay put!”

“Frodo, he’s back! He’s back and – fuck! He’s **_leaving_**!” Although hampered by the weight of both packs, and Pip,  Sam was a man on a mission. “Get off me!” His pack swung around, Pip went down, and never a look back.

“Sam!”

He encountered Merry kneeling and fumbling with his pants leg, and gave as much thought to him as to Pip, just plowed right over, objective that shrinking patch of sunshine and beyond. “Sorry, guys, but Frodo needs me. Take care. Don't know if we'll ever see each other again.”

“Sam, wait!”

Scrambled up, Pip chased after, tripping over the prostrate Merry in the process, Sam disappearing around the corner by the time Pip achieved the deck's entrance. Merry joined him only seconds later.

“This day keeps getter better and better,” Merry spat out the blood of  Sam's knee to jaw connection.

“So, it’s back to just waiting?”

“Goddamnit!” McDonald’s cup ricocheted off the wall, Merry’s left impotent angry kick painting Dr. Pepper abstracts across the concrete. “Enough of this shit. We’re outta here.”

“But, Aragorn said to -”

“Fuck him! We’re part of this so called -” air quotes, “- Fellowship,” voice raised to be heard over the approaching noise, “and I’m fucking tired of being treated like extra baggage.”

“Where would we -”

Now, forced even louder. “Home, like you said. Just go home and forget the whole fucking mess.”

“We can’t, can’t abandon Frodo!”

“OK, then, _we’ll_ find him.” Not so much talking as shouting now, the cacophony closing in fast, “we’ll find Frodo. Who knows him better than we do, right?”

“Sam.”

Eye roll unseen since Merry was bellowing right in Pippin’s ear. “But, he’s not here, is he? So, it’s up to us to find them both.”

“Find them both and maybe Boromir, too, but where should we start?”

“Start by -” Just normal, really, Big Apple background stuff. In a city of twenty million people, and perhaps three times as many vehicles, racing engines, so what else was new? Even the dozen or so motorcycles flooding the alleyway, not worth a notice, motorcycles screaming toward the parking deck, black teeth snarling, White Hand on helmets – “run, Pip, run now!”

Greased lightning, Pip disappeared, Merry nano-seconds behind, though it was a chase already lost: two men on foot against twelve Harleys, and they ran down, not up to the light, but down toward black. Down. Down. Engines so loud, felt it under the skin. Down. Way blocked now. White Hands circling around. To the left, run that way! Engines so loud, teeth hurt. Air thinning, choked by exhaust. Run, run. That way blocked. Black leather, shiny chrome, White Hand. Run the other way, Run, Pip, grab on, pull together, run. Run to the right. Circle, within a circle now. Sound shaking, cracking walls, screaming against the sound. Taunting, riding in a circle, round and round, broken teeth jeering, spitting, spinning, trying to follow, dizzy, laughing, engines screaming, circle tighter, growing smaller, laughing, where, where do we go so loud tighter closer smell gag taunts crying closer whimpering wretch  no breath closer dead eyes closer engines closer choke closer engines closer teeth closer white hand touch love you merry love you too pip ready to die.

 

 

 

*****

 

 

 

The Ring came off about Broad Street.

_“You’re welcome, Frodo Baggins.”_

Just couldn't be without it anymore. In the windy nothing world of the Ring, Frodo became bereft of that presence. Bad enough being the Ringbearer would steal him from his side, Frodo could not bear the emptiness in his soul any longer. The Ring came off, Sam returned, and Frodo lived again.

“Fuck you.”

After kneeing Boromir in the nuts, Frodo had fled, running, just running away, pain, shame stumbling just away. Even after blocks separated attacker from victim and pursuit no longer a threat, he continued to run and now that he sat a top of the East Coast Memorial deep within Battery Park, and the New York harbor dazzled into twilight before him, Frodo realized in the end it was _to_ something he had been running, not away.

_“Ah, happy memories.”_

“Shut up.”

Bilbo loved this view, said as much on their first visit to the Battery, not long after Frodo had moved in, “You can see all the way to forever.” On a clear day, at least. And if the fog had rolled in, or the haze of a hot July day blocked your view, then your imagination might take you even further.

Frodo looked south, towards Minas Tirith, dreaming up images of The White City. He looked south towards Mordor, pulling mental pictures from his recent nightmares. He looked south towards Mount Doom, calling on everything he had seen representing Hell, and knew they would all pale in comparison. _And that’s where I must go. Alone._

_“But, you are not alone, Frodo.”_

“Yes, I am.”

If ever a sliver of doubt existed, it had shattered when Boromir shoved greedy hands down his pants. The Ring’s fault, and he cared too much to keep that corruption within reach of friends.

_“Blame for that boorish behavior lays elsewhere, Frodo.”_

“Fucking liar.”

Aragorn and Legolas would understand about his decision to leave, and so would Gimli eventually, after Legolas’ explanation, that is. His friends, Merry and Pip would not understand: angry, furious, irate until ordinary crowded in and took their minds off to a life his betrayal had guaranteed. After a while, forgiveness might creep in when the name Frodo Baggins was mentioned over dinner or at a college reunion, a fond smile perhaps for their long ago friend. _They’ll be fine, they have each other._

_“Just like us, right, Frodo?”_

“Fuck off.”

That left only one other person, the one that Frodo could not do without, and the main reason for his decision to leave. He would not be responsible for corrupting him, for one hair on his head to be harmed, for one danger to cross his path, one terror in the night, one tear to fall. _Rather die than be_ _the cause of Sam’s pain._

_“A wise decision, Frodo.”_

“Fucking shut up!”

Only 7:30 PM. The last ferry left Manhattan at midnight. _Plenty of time._ Ignoring the pain of all too recent hurts, and The Ring’s sudden chattiness,  Frodo drew knees up to chin, closed his eyes – _Sam, my Sam –_ and listened. A song of hazel eyes, sweet smiles, silly jokes, concerned frowns, mushroom omelets, matzo ball soup, Frisbee in Central Park, New Year’s eve in Times Square, inventory days, birthday parties, late nights, early mornings, doing nothing, non-stop talking, warm hands, hot kisses, unconditional love. _Sam will be safe, Sam will be alive._ Music swelled his heart, and he leaned heavily on it, setting his burden down there for the last time.

 

 

 

 

****

 

 

“Don’t you leave me, Frodo Baggins, don't you fucking leave me. You hear! Are you listening to me, huh? Are you? Don’t care where you’re going or into what, I’ll not have you doing it alone. I know where you are, feel you there, I know!

Sorry, lady.

It was Boromir, wasn’t it? If that fucker even put one finger on you, I’ll rip his goddamn head off! It was him, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t have let you go in there alone. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking, that’s the problem. Well, I’m thinking now, Frodo, and I don’t like that I’m thinking about.

Move your ass!

Don’t do this for me, don’t leave on account of me. I love you, need you, want you. You think by doing this you’re saving me, helping and protecting me from the Ring, from Sauron, from harm? That’s all bullshit! Don’t need you to protect me, that’s my job. I protect you, remember? Don’t leave me! Let me do my job!

Come on, come on, come on light, change!

Just the two of us, that’s what it is. You and me going against the Dark Lord, you and me against the world. Christ, now I’m quoting bad seventies ballads. See what you do to me? You make me fucking crazy, that’s what! Have been since the day we met. I ever tell you that? Fuck, the first time I saw your eyes, I was fucking gone! Loved you ever since, never dreaming you felt the same way. But, you did, you do! And you just can’t walk away from that. Not when we just found it. Too few people do. It’d be wrong to throw it away, walk away. Don’t you leave me, Frodo!

Sorry ‘bout that.

Don’t leave, don’t leave.

What’s your problem? Jesus H Christ, said I was sorry! Yeah, well, fuck you twice! Some people.

You think this will help, but it would only hurt me, kill me. I’d die without you, Frodo. You’re part of me now, you leaving will kill me. I know it. Yes! The Park, yes! There’s the Battery! You think leaving will keep me from pain? But, leaving is causing the worst pain, don’t you understand that? Frodo, are you listening to me! Are you? I’m begging here, Frodo. You be right there. Be there. Be there! Love you, Frodo, love you, love you, LOVE YOU! Don’t leave me! I’ll follow, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll follow you. Know where you’re going. I’ll walk right behind you, follow you whereever you go, ‘cause that’s the way its supposed to be. I’m your Sam, _your_ Sam and you’re my Frodo. Don’t leave me, god, Frodo please, I’m begging here. Don’t you leave me, Frodo. Don’t leave me. Frodo!”

 

 

 

 

****

 

 

Caught sight across the West Side Highway, barreling up over the guardrails, Sam skidded stopped, and their gazes’ conversation short and sweet.

_I’m going alone, Sam._

_Sure you are. And I’m going with you._

“Sam! Don’t you dare! Don’t – you – fucking –”

A smile, Sam stepped off the shoulder into oncoming traffic.

“Fuck!” Horror and helplessness watched as an 18-wheeler breezed past, the draft knocking Sam forward into the path of a - “Sam!” – claims made about precision handling not false, the Lexus missed by mere inches. “Damnit, watch out!” A quick sidestep of a Volvo station wagon and Sam was half way there.

Frodo thumb nub biting as Sam stepped out – “Malibu!” – back an instant later.

_"Why stay and watch this, Frodo, you were leaving him behind anyway. Just go now, before he goes splat. Don’t need him, don’t need anyone, all you truly need is right here.”_

In the home stretch, Frodo focused his eyes on Sam’s, now clearly visible across the final four lanes. Wait for the Geo Tracker, step out. Now, the cab, a mini Cooper and an old VW Beetle, one more step. Two lanes to go. School bus, one, two more cabs, low rider, step. One lane to go. Sam’s eyes sparkled. Motorcycle, Pinto, cab, Benz, cab, now step. “Sam! Watch out!”

The torn away tread unnoticed until too late, a trip over and two packs pounding  Sam to the asphalt, instinct hands out to ease the fall. “Shit! Sam!” Vaulting over the guard rail, Frodo sprinted to the highway, latched on to an outstretched bloodied hand and dragged, Sam missed bread truck crushing by millimeters.

Collapsed, the pair sat heaving on the side of the road, hair tousled and bodies tossed by highway speed. “You’ve got chutzpah, I’ll give you that, Gamgee.”

Sam reached out and turned Frodo’s scratched cheek for his inspection. “Chutzpah? Where did you learn a word like that?”

“From you.” A ‘leave it alone, Sam’ pull back.

“Glad to see I’m having some kind of influence on you. Have you dancing the Hora next.” A ‘not bloody likely’ returned.

“Just don’t expect me to give up cheeseburgers.”

Three Suburbans, right in a row, right by and right next to their shoulder sprawl, the wind rush shoving them into the get the hell outta Dodge motion. “Come on, Frodo.” Sam and packs up and to safer ground retreating.

Help begged off, Frodo followed behind, just passed crisis euphoria sloughing away to thwarted escape irritation. “Why are you here, Sam?”

Up over the guardrail. “I made a promise.”

“I know. You’ve used that one before. You promised Gandalf,” Frodo shimmed down the hill after, “’Don’t you leave him, Samwise.’”

“Nope, that only covered until Rivendell, with the Institute thrown in. Going to Mordor falls under a completely different promise.” The ferry parking lot full of cars had Sam scooting haphazardly to reach the terminal.

“Who’d you make this one to? Elrond? Aragorn?” Anger reared its ugly head. Many things he despised, but being treated like a child in need of a nanny had to be number one. Gandalf’s promise was one thing, made in the heat of the moment, but here another had been extracted, a promise that had his lover walking into danger and assuming him too weak to fend for himself. “Galadriel?”

Sam stopped. “No, silly, I made the promise to you.”

“When? When did you promise me Mordor?”

“When I said I love you.”

_“And you believe that revolting treacle?”_

“Shut up!”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Right between the eyes, upside the head, Sam cut straight through the bullshit fantasy of going alone. _Idiot. Fucking idiot. Leave Sam? Leave my heart?_ Fiercely wrapping arms around, Frodo held on for dear life, Sam’s strength bolstering his, Sam’s commitment conquering his hopelessness, Sam’s song soothing his Ring taunted tattered soul. _Have my Sam with me. Now. Always._

_“As am I, Frodo Baggins, as I am.”_

One tough squeeze, a quick kiss to forehead, and Sam stepped back. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry. Want to get a seat on the west side. Watch Lady Liberty sail by.”

Frodo slipped his hand inside Sam’s, then promptly yanked back out again at the gasp. “Sorry, forgot.”

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” Sam held up scraped palms while eyebrows indicated Frodo’s bruised and scratched cheek. “If this is just New York, imagine what we’re going to look like when we finally reach Mount Doom.”

Frodo had to settle for an arm about his love’s waist as they walked.  “Should be fucking pissed off at you, Sam. Wanted a grand finale, be the self-sacrificing hero and all that. You’ve ruined my exit.”

Sam drew Frodo in closer. “No, just making sure you’re around for the sequels.”

“Glad you’re with me, Samwise Gamgee.”

The ferry’s horn blared, calling all passengers aboard.

“You’re stuck with me, Frodo, whether or no.”

 


	16. 16

 

 

_Everything’s fucked._

Merry glanced back through his one good eye, the other punched closed on a whim, at the body crowned with deep red on the floor of an obscure parking deck in Lower Manhattan.

_Royally fucked._

Beyond hearing, beyond hope, he and Pip had clutched each other as Saruman’s White Hand closed its fist around them. Dead meat just waiting for the grinder, and why didn’t they just do it already, enough with the games, enough with the circles, just fucking kill –

An orc lurching forward, bike skidding out from underneath – what, what the fuck just - the now rider less bike ramming sideways, unseating three others – don’t understand what’s – through the circle’s gaping hole, Desert Eagles aimed and blaring –

Boromir.

Three more orcs bit the dust before rescue had reached their side, and no words just a jab into fatigue jacket, and unbelievably, there were two more weapons. One for Pip, a Glock, while Merry received the Walther PPK. A curt nod and Merry knew Boromir understood the desire to die fighting.

Hands and arms buzzing still from that gun’s kickback, Merry shifted his gaze to his friend who sat strapped to the next biker over, bleeding and unconscious. _Wake up, please wake up!_ More of a hunting rifle guy he had told everyone often enough, Pippin’s entire life spent around firearms. Taught to shoot at the tender age of seven, hunting skills demonstrated once to Merry and Frodo over a winter break by downing a 12-point buck from over 1,000 yards. A clean shot, right to the head, the deer never knew what hit him, dead before he hit the ground. The buck had felt no pain, Pip had tried to explain to an uncomfortable Frodo, always the goal of the true sports hunter. In the garage, however, no clean shots for Pippin. While Boromir used speed to take down the never-ending barage of Saruman’s orcs, and Merry utilized the ‘if it moves, just fucking shoot it’ method, each of Pippin's went for damage points. His favorite seemed to be the thigh, just clipping the femoral artery, giggles screeching as the wounded orc flopped on the concrete, Pip lining up the next shot then blowing away as much flesh to achieve the maximum of agony. Not the smell in the garage, the exhaust, gunpowder and death, that had Merry kneeling behind the others puking until he cried, but the look of sheer bliss on his lover’s face as he destroyed and tortured, exacting his revenge.

The city blurred by, the rush of  Autumn air biting into his wounds. The pack, 20 strong, traveled as a wedge towards US 78, final destination: Isengard? Where that was exactly, no fucking clue. But, Merry knew if Professor Saruman, who pulled The White Hands’ strings, waited at the end, it would not be not pleasant.

They had been winning, actually _winning,_ the Uruk-hai falling back, retreating up, yeah, who’s the pawn now, huh, who’s the stupid fuckers with no firepower, take that! you fucking cunt, and _that,_ chasing after the frightened shits, tripping over the fallen bodies, running up the last ramp, almost to the entrance, almost to the sunlight, almost to –

Shoulder blade, spun him around, a scarlet blossom on Boromir’s jacket. Another burst of color from forearm, one more on his knee, the bouquet blooming brilliant. And he just kept firing.

But, from where? No guns, no sense, they didn’t have, nothing before, only motorcycles, and teeth and snarls and fists, how could they, where did those shots –

There. Big orc with big gun, and a big smug smile walking forward.

Glock and Walther exhausted, and orders to run ignored, beer bottles, McDonald’s bags, insults, Merry and Pippin swinging away wild. And Big Orc Smug Smile never stopped walking.

Swaying and sweating, drooping and dripping, Boromir waited, no sense wasting precious ammo, waited for adversary to come to him, Big Orc walking straight ahead, straight toward them, straight until trembling gun muzzle touched gut and kill shot. Smug met sacrifice, and the trigger squeezed.

_Click._

The blood spatter splotched up Merry’s clothes, hair, face, by now turned sticky and stale. His Uruk-hai chauffer had spit on Boromir’s crumpled body.

Didn’t know why both he and Pippin had made it easy for them. Picket’s Charge, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kind, McCain/Palin, their frontal assault ended pretty much the same way as those others. Merry’s eye caught by a shoved elbow, his stomach and kidneys welcomed a fist or two before being drug by a leg back across the garage to a new group of riders. Literally tossed up behind one, he knew the drill without asking. Hold on, or die.

Pippin had fought them tooth and nail, and elbow and heel and knee and every other part until finally subdued when run head first into the wall. His inert body strapped down like that 12-point buck of his across the back of another bike.

No words spoken, no words needed. Saruman awaited.

Eyes fluttered open, and locked onto Merry’s: clear, lucid and **pain**. _He’s awake!_   _He's alive!_ The good eye fell shut as he leaned his wind stiff body forward. _Let the orc bastard hold me up for a while._ The leather scratched at his bloody face. _Pip’s here, I’m here. Sam ran after Frodo, Gimli after Legolas, Boromir’s dead…_ Merry gave in to his own oblivion.

_…hey, where the hell is Aragorn?_

Didn’t feel anything. Body numb. No…that’s not…more like asleep, or better…a heavy blanket draped across…still not right. Sand. Yes! Wet sand, like that time Faramir buried…neck deep in the sand then ran away laughing as the tide came in. Virginia Beach, late August, the year before Mother died. And things never the same after.

The asbestos covered ceiling of this parking garage would not have been his first choice for last living sight. That honor would have to fall to the White Tower viewed from a few miles away, a bright spot on the horizon proudly shouting out its glory. Or maybe one hope to bloom on the White Tree again. No, what he desired most at this moment - a brother’s shy smile earning a father's acceptance.

That Fourth of July picnic, when it all became clear, fireworks exploding in fits and sparkly starts, the sight of his little brother, bathed in a rosy hue, looking back over his shoulder and in that instant, he had gazed at Mother. Did not know why he hadn’t noticed it before. However, after that night, Mother began showing up where ever Faramir did, a constant reminder. And what he took as a gift, Mother always in Faramir, Father turned into a curse.

And that bitterness honed hard and sharp over the years had turned away insight and intelligence to demand trusted son answer Elrond’s invitation. And what a mess that son had made of things.

Unsure of every detail since succumbing to greedy lust, several moments did burn clear: Frodo’s eyes as hands twisted tighter, rampaging rage to rend flesh from bone, and the sun tepid muddy puddle water where blind fury had tripped him drenching spell broken, sight pristine for the first time since Rivendell.

The idea of facing his father perversely funny as Fellowship steps were retraced back to the park, and he had wondered what kind of spin Father would send this pathetic tale through to bring beloved son out on top. A dazzling show of rationalizations, recriminations and false accusations, no doubt, all aimed at others when the one who was at fault bore the Steward's name. Father’s fury over dismal failure would have been easy to face, though, the disappointment in Faramir’s eyes, devastating.

The unmistakable sound of racing engines had inexplicably drawn him round a different corner, to this garage, to Merry and Pippin, and here he had found a chance – if he could give the Ringbearer this small gift, hoping not to atone for his sin, an impossibility, but to allow the simple joy of good friends to exist still within Frodo’s shattered life – a sliver of redemption.

Only in the end, he had failed. Again.

A face floated above…Aragorn?... fuzzy round the outside, focused in the middle. “They took them, Merry and…Saruman.”

“Boromir, don’t talk, just lie still, I’ll get -”

“No!” Unable to move, desperate to be heeded command stopped any life-saving ministrations. It was time, his time now. “Where’s Frodo?”

Hands fluttered about, knowing they should be doing something, anything. “He has left with Sam.”

“I tried to take it,” vision middle fuzzy now, voice shallow gurgling, “take the Ring from Frodo. Forgive me.”

Aragorn’s face softened, his hand coming to rest on Boromir’s brow. “Nothing to forgive, my friend.”

Grey to black, eyes saw nothing. “Go to Minas Tirith, Aragorn, go to my city. See that the White Tower shines again.”

“I will not fail, Boromir. Minas Tirith will not fall.”

The wet sand trickled, pulling down, flattening out. “When you get there tell my…tell Faramir…I am proud to be his brother.”

_What a bastard I’ve become._

It was Gimli’s suggestion to pound holes in the bottom of Galadriel’s boat before placing Boromir’s body within, thus ensuring the trip to the bottom of the river. Knowing the current Steward, should the murdered son headline start a media feeding frenzy, the indignation and rage pouring forth from Minas Tirith would engulf Rivendell, then the Institute, Arda, everything, perhaps Frodo included, salvation pulled down by publicity's crass schadenfruede. Better to deliver the fallen hero to an unmarked watery grave than to risk failure of the Quest.

A bit of quick thinking, skilled driving and luck had aided in the rescue of Boromir’s body from being labeled John Doe Number Whatever in the New York County morgue. Even before final breath had escaped, the choir of sirens foretelling the arrival of New York’s finest had them scrambling, the body lifted - three new sets of shuffling footprints indecipherable from those already tracking crimson everywhere - and held tight up on his bike, dark enveloping just as the cavalry arrived ready to investigate what would become one more on the inexplicable list of events over the past several days.

Appreciating the fine piece of “borrowed” artisanship humming between his thighs, Aragorn turned left on Grand Street, what remained of the Fellowship chasing a mistaken White Hand. The only ring the Uruk-hai carried to Saruman, the one in Merry’s eyebrow. That is if the two friends even survived the trip to Isengard. And any pain and torment suffered, his responsibility and shame.

Pissing off an entire line of traffic, and Legolas too probably, who followed close behind, Aragorn slipped in to make the turn on to Canal Street. New Jersey, Hwy 78 and the successful rescue he fervently prayed for waiting at the end of the Holland Tunnel.

_Should have taken Elrond up on that offer for a taxi, Pip._

If there had been any way possible, he would have screamed. He would have screamed in pain, his head two halves beating against the whole. He would have screamed in terror, his mind conjuring up the most hideous death for himself. He would have screamed in frustration, his body trapped and at his captor’s mercy. He would have screamed in despair, his heart broken by the death of Boromir. He would have screamed in concern, his eyes filled with the inert body of his love flapping in the breeze beside him. And he would have screamed...well...because. However, he couldn’t. Lungs compressed too tightly against the driver, the wind too fast and bitter to draw air. And, with everything else taken from him - freedom, future, friend – being robbed of a fucking good scream, just made him want to scream all the more. The most Pip managed to do, whimper, pitiful rage stripped bare by the passing night.

_This sucks!_

Gimli didn’t do cold. Went to great lengths to avoid cold. He lived in a climate-controlled building with its own underground parking. He got into his climate-controlled car to drive to work and back into another below ground deck. The elevator ride up always at a comfortable 76 degrees, which brought him directly to his climate-controlled office. In his perfectly temperatured life, Gimli was never cold.

The mile maker 28 went by.

Gimli’s face frozen, feet solid blocks, even when pounding those holes, saying those few, faltering, insufficient words in memoriam, even before barely making out the park before discovery, his hands long past numb. And now, October in New Jersey in the middle of the night huddled on a motorcycle behind a guy whose wind breaking capacity was nil, he clung with two engineer popsicles, teeth chattering.

Mile marker 30.

Amazing how quickly things went south for the Fellowship. Boromir, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin all gone within the space of an hour. Now what was left sped across the darkness with only a tiny hope of finding something to rescue. That thought shivered ice from the inside. Just how far was it to Philly anyway? The next mile marker –

_32._

The ‘o’ in the sign sending the cheap curtains loitering about the window to sick orange sputtered 32 times in the past minute. 27 the minute before, 35 the minute before that. Sam watched the flickering sign having finished counting faded wallpaper stripes, the number of cigarette burns on the bed side table, the number of stains on the snot green sculptured carpet. His eyes searched for something to latch onto so as not to count once more the number of bruises on the body lying fitfully in his arms.

Gulping back bile, Sam had inventoried Frodo’s encounter with Boromir - abrasions reaching up into the hair line cut the right side of the face culminating in a ripe lump tender to the touch and shot through with red. Four, round purple marks, matched by a fifth and stubbier one on the opposite side, circled the pale throat, while scratches trailed down both chest and back, tiny, swollen lines racing towards his waist. Below, brick burns stamped onto hipbones, Frodo’s penis distended from abuse.

He had begged to go get proper first aid supplies, but Frodo flatly refused, ashamed of the need. Did what he could with limited resources, tending the wounds Frodo would allow him to touch with warm water, a weak bar of generic face soap and tender hands. Boxers in the sink soaking, jeans hung in the dingy shower dripping, the blood washed away pile of brown-stained scruffy towels adding the only color to the peeling floor in the bathroom.

The body clutching against his chest jerked, incoherent words tumbling out through cracked lips. For the 14th time, Sam rocked back and forth, sending gentle soothing through caresses and brushed kisses, calming Frodo back to sleep. His own eyes burned to drift off, body weighed down with weariness. But, he would not succumb, never give in weakness, as long as Frodo’s need stayed awake, so would Sam.

Frodo would heal, while painful, the wounds mostly superficial. Of course, that did not lessen the horror of the attack, especially since someone in whom they had placed their trust had done the damage. The Ring. That’s what made Boromir turn animal. Not an absolution, but hatred was tempered with an understanding of the Ring’s allure. It lounged on Frodo's shallow breathing, the imperious bright spot in their not remotely chic shabby motel room. Whom could they trust if the Ring called and twisted everyone to Its will? And if It could turn someone like Boromir, what was It doing to the one who carried It?

Turning away from the deviously simple gold band, and hugging Frodo as tightly as he dared, his eyes wandered above to begin counting the holes in the yellowed ceiling tiles. After about 1,003, and running out of tangibles, his mind shifted to counting his favorite Frodo smiles…Frodo’s sighs…the number of miles still yet to travel…the medical supplies he would insist on buying despite their dwindling funds.

_Going to be prepared for the next time._

His life a series of plans. Nothing ever left to chance. Good science thrived on order, and so did Legolas. His home, as well as his office, immaculate and ergonomic in every way. The bedroom flowed serenely into the living area, which meshed with the kitchen/dining nook then opened out onto the Japanese garden where he meditated each morning centering his chi for the coming day.

At work, cell phone, tablet and lap top available at his fingertips, each task mapped out to the exact minute, including lunch and bathroom breaks. No wasted motion or resources in the lab, either. Every experiment scheduled, performed and reviewed within the proper time frame. He even planned for his planning time. This way nothing came as a surprise. This way he was always ready.

And now? Fellowship shattered, Quest in shambles, he was speeding across three states in pursuit of Saruman’s Uruk-hai following a man only guessing at which direction.

He hadn’t planned on this.

A transfer truck blew passed him doing at least 80, shoving the bike to the right and Gimli’s icicles in deeper.

_Don’t like where all this is going._

Pinky sunset, steel waters, tall sailed ship bobbing lazy. Hey, it’s Galadriel and Elrond! Now Bilbo, all climbing aboard, and Gandalf’s beckoning to come join them, rest and healing they say, peace and contentment. Follow, why not, sounds good, follow Gandalf up the ramp, standing in the bow, the dock slipping away, smaller and smaller until the solitary watching figure disa –

“Sam!”

Musty overuse struck fierce. A nearsighted pattern blinked on the wall. Struggling against his bonds until a sleepy murmur tickled ear. The room smelled wrong, the seediness looked wrong, the lumpy mattress and scratchy sheets beneath his incredibly sore body felt wrong. Yet, Frodo knew he was in the right place. He listened to the tiny snore just above his cradled head and the last images of his dream, a lone distant person on a dwindling behind dock, evaporated.

Allowing the wrongness of the space around him to drift into the background, and choosing to concentrate on the rightness of being held within Sam’s care instead, the combination of lover’s warmth and music, and the Ring’s soft lullaby, coaxed Frodo back to sleep.

_Just a dream?_

Nirvana. The Elysian Fields. Valhalla. Heaven. The White Shore. Home. A wonderful dream filled with song, comfort and the peace of far green hills.

But, now all gone, all black, entombed in a cloying mist, home snatched away, and here…nothing…cold…alone...why...a gasping breath, and life pumped again.

The full moon poked hard silhouettes from the spreading leafy branches above, and the night creatures’ shouting nearly deafened. Springing moss cushioned bare body, yet did nothing to help the ache of once again old bones.

A second chance. One had been granted, a chance to return, to succeed, to finish what had been started all those long years ago.

Which was all well and good, miraculous even, but nothing could be accomplished in these current state of affairs. Goosebumps and leaves did not a cutting figure make.

Walking on instinct, the journey out of the forest commenced, new purpose and cunning ideas tumbling rampant to begin. A second chance! This time, no failure. This time Sauron would fall.

“This time I am Gandalf the White.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Be Continued...in "The Ring Goes South" Starting in November!


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